


Affinity Interplays- Lip x Helene

by toastyhusbandstand



Series: How Affinity Interplays [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Explicit Sexual Content, Extramarital Affairs, Feels, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Jealous Ian Gallagher, Light Angst, M/M, OOC Mickey, Older Mickey Milkovich, Teacher-Student Relationship, Top Ian Gallagher, maybe? I'm not sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28060572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastyhusbandstand/pseuds/toastyhusbandstand
Summary: My reimagining of various Shameless relationship dynamics through the magic of Ian and Mickey. Because I firmly believe our boys can come through in whichever universe they’re thrown in.Please indulge me.First part: Lip x HeleneAlternatively known as the ongoing love affair between a witty college student and his professor
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich/Original Male Character(s)
Series: How Affinity Interplays [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055510
Comments: 21
Kudos: 48





	Affinity Interplays- Lip x Helene

In hindsight, it might not have been one of Ian’s greatest decision to start banging his college professor.

For a guy supposedly smart, and with potential that went far beyond the confines of the shitty Southside –as his family liked to remind him– Ian was surprisingly good at making bad decisions.

Still, fucking Professor Mickey Milkovich has to be one of his worst decisions ever.

Like definitely out there in the top three.

As most mistakes tend to happen, Ian hadn’t planned for anything to start up when he first walked in the older man’s office, obliging his professor’s request to _discuss lingering issues_ after class. He'd been tense, worried he was about to get kicked out of the class before having the chance to look at the course outline.

But he was prepared to dispute his case in favor of being allowed to take the damn class and not waste another semester. It wasn’t a very strong case, seeing as he had missed the first week of school and been called out on it earlier today by the aforementioned teacher. Even worse, his registration hadn’t been processed due to payment _issues_ and he was sure his professor had been made aware of the fact by now.

Still, Ian Gallagher isn’t about to go down without a fight.

“You can take a seat Mr. Gallagher,” the teacher starts, once Ian makes his presence known and steps inside the small office. It’s a very collegiate space, with the plant near the window and the back wall fully covered in this wooden bookshelf with hundreds of dense-looking manuals.

Ignoring the suggestion, Ian chooses to stand. He needs to show audacity and braveness right now, needs to show he won’t be bullied in the face of adversity. Adversity in this case, being exploitative universities and their teaching staff.

Seeing as the younger man isn’t budging, isn’t even talking, Professor Milkovich sighs. “Look I’ll make this short, I’ve made a call to financial aid and they’ve told me your student fees setback wasn’t as resolved as you’ve lead me on to believe.”

“From their perspective, maybe.” Ian concedes. “In my opinion, the matter is as resolved as can be.”

Professor Milkovich looks surprised, eyebrows reaching shocking heights on his forehead. Not for the first time, Ian takes a moment to admire the beauty of the man before him, with the beautiful blue eyes and the small yet sturdy body. The pale skin and the plump lips, the brown hair a shade between raven and dark chocolate. It’s all very yummy.

Older yet still displaying youthful cuteness. Just how Ian likes them.

“Please enlighten me, Mr. Galla– ”

“Ian,”

“ _Ian,_ ” the teacher corrects, “On how something as clear as an outstanding balance of 10 thousand dollars owed to this university, can be up for interpretation?” His tone might be condescending but his eyes and smile show curiosity. That, Ian can work with.

Putting on his most charming smile, Ian retorts. “I understand how numbers are valuable to you, being a maths professor and all, but I assure you there is no sum of money large enough to keep me from getting the finest education.” He adds cheekily, “By the finest professors, of course.”

“As flattering as that may be, I’m afraid universities don’t allow random people to roam in their halls, asking for free education. Not this one at least, last I’ve checked.”

“And I’m sure you aren’t interested in my primed rant on the absurdity of capitalizing students for flaunting needs of higher education, which are basically basic requirements for any job nowadays.” He smiles, “So I’ll spare you. But I can assure you, Professor Milko–”

“Mickey,” It’s the professor’s turn to correct him, almost bashfully, as if he didn’t mean to let the information slip. Ian smirks internally.

First-name basis; good progress.

“ _Mickey,_ that I have the money for my semester’s tuition and that it’s only a matter of handling and time-processing before it’s in the university’s precious hands” Ian lies through his teeth.

He hasn’t gotten all of the money yet, but he does have a few leads on how to maybe get it. All because of this stupid fucking grant that couldn’t be processed right.

Mickey doesn’t look convinced with the lie but he does look impressed with the whole stand-up of it. “I have to say, I’m wondering why you’re taking my statistics class, Ian. Maybe an English or business major would suit you better, as linguistically proficient as you are.”

_Linguistically proficient_. That’s a nice way to put it. “Usually, people just call me a smartass,”

The look Mickey gives him is one of amusement and Ian’s depicting undertones of seduction. He’s not usually wrong about these things.

Interesting.

“Not like I can say that to a student, now can I?”

“But you made the right assumption,” Ian tracks on, “I’m majoring in business, as of this semester. I figured, though, that statistics are knowledgeable if I wish to handle money and investments.” He lies again. No need in telling his teacher that he only took the class because it was the only one available in the Tuesday evening gap after his shift at the pizza place.

“So that’s the dream then? Big corporation job in the big corporation world? Let me guess, you have plans on becoming a successful C.E.O. before you turn thirty.”

Ok, Mickey’s not too impressed with the career choice, probably having seen loads of these students come and go with big expectations and little to no follow-through. But Ian isn’t like most of these students. If he made it to college, made it this far, he’s getting to the fucking finish line.

"Well for a Southside kid like me, I tend to manage expectations pretty well.” He notes the guise of surprise on Mickey’s face, but doesn’t dwell on it. “So, it’s more like C.F.O. before forty-five,”

Mickey looks pleased enough with him, and Ian can’t help but think he’s about to bag this win. His fate is evidently sealed when the teacher takes his sweet fucking time before replying, as if he’s still contemplating, letting the suspense build for the sole purpose of entertainment.

“Then who am I to stand in the path of what might be the next understated Warren Buffet?”

Ian lets out a smile of victory and relief but before he can even thank the man, the professor continues. “I’m letting you attend class and take the quiz on Tuesday even if you aren’t on the registry yet. With the understanding, of course, that your little financial hiccup will be resolved by next week, yes?”

Ian finds himself nodding, more determined than ever to fix the goddamn tuition problem once and for all.

“Of course, sir– I mean _Mickey_. I’m on it as of right now.”

There’s an exchange of nods between the two men, before Ian makes his way out of the office. He’s feeling great, things are finally looking up, for once, and he feels confident on tackling the following challenges life will inevitably throw his way. Being a Gallagher, they tend to come quite often.

He’s on such a high, it makes him turn around in a matter of seconds and trace back his latest steps, leading him back to Professor Mickey Milkovich’s office.

This time, when Ian enters the space and closes the door swiftly, it’s Mickey’s turn to look unnerved and his to look collected. He doesn’t stand in front of Mickey’s desk like earlier. Instead, he contours the obstacle, moving closer to the man.

“Is there something else I can help you with, Ian?”

Mickey doesn’t look uneasy exactly with the way his student is approaching him, more like awaiting the next move. Maybe intrigued. Maybe a little knowing too, as if he’s aware he can’t be resisted. He’s not wrong. His body turns to face Ian, the leather chair rolling under him.

“I realized I hadn’t thanked you properly for your kindness.”

“How very dishonourable of you, Ian Gallagher.” His teacher reprimands with irony.

“Yes. Very. My deepest apologies,” he offers as ironically.

Mickey’s eyebrows do that thing again with the lifting and Christ, Ian has never been this attracted to eyebrows in his life. He wants him so bad right now. Hopefully, he’s about to.

After suspenseful moments of anticipating, the professor gives into Ian’s stillness with careful delight. “I guess I’m waiting for this acknowledgement you’ve mentioned. Or should I expect a thank you card?”

“I had something else in mind. Something a lot more fun than a thank you card.” Ian delivers the line with charm and confidence. It usually works for him and with the way Mickey’s body stills then quickly recovers by crossing one attractive leg over the other, Ian knows the straight-forward approach is working its standard magic.

Ian pushes further, by shrugging his coat off his shoulder and down to the floor, revealing strong biceps and toned torso through the light fabric of the t-shirt he’s wearing.

“I’m not sure what you think is going to happen,” Mickey discourages even when Ian notices hungry eyes roaming over him, “But it’s against policy for professors and students to fraternize,” Mickey finishes, mind and mouth obviously disagreeing.

Ian would find it funny if he wasn’t so enamored by the thrill of the chase.

He starts advancing slowly. “Oh, I don’t want to fraternize.” Ian assures when he’s close enough that he’s towering over the older man, Mickey’s neck crowning to hold their intense stare. “I want to fuck you. Here. On this desk.”

The outcome of the confession is immediate. Mickey pushes his chair back as he surges upward, mouth latching onto Ian’s and arms wrapping around his neck, before Ian can even place his hands on the delicious meat of Mickey’s hips.

They exchange a few heated kisses, hands roaming and feet unbalanced, before Ian’s grip grows stronger and he lifts Mickey into his arms. The older man complies willingly, legs wrapping over Ian’s waist, mouth moving to Ian’s jaw, then his neck. Mickey licks into his skin and it pools heat in the deeps of Ian’s stomach.

Ian’s quick to push everything on Mickey’s desk out of the way with one swift backhand. As all of Mickey’s shit falls to the floor, papers flying everywhere, Ian seats the man on top of his desk, stepping inside Mickey’s opened legs, hands going over sturdy thighs.

“Always wanted to do that,” he confesses, between breathless kisses. Mickey’s grip in fiery red hair tightens and he tugs on it, earning a groan from his student.

That being the Hollywood-move swing. Or maybe the porno-move seduction of a teacher. Or maybe just fucking Mickey.

“It’ll be a bitch to clean up afterwards. Trust me, I know.” Mickey reprimands but doesn’t look too concerned otherwise and Ian is quick to shut him up with hungrier, deeper kisses. He’s quicker to move his hands on a curvy, presently enclosed, ass; one he’s been wanting to feel since the moment he first laid eyes upon. He clutches both cheeks, fingers digging in the soft flesh, and they touch as good as they look.

They realize simultaneously that there’s too many layers between them and Ian goes for Mickey’s pants as Mickey pushes Ian’s shirt upward, making sure to touch as much skin and toned muscles as possible.

Once his shirt’s off, Ian wiggles Mickey out of his pants and briefs, figuring the sooner the naked the better. They’ve only unbuttoned Mickey’s dress shirt halfway but Ian admits to liking this half-naked look; the wrinkled accessory paints quite the sexy sight on Mickey’s otherwise naked body.

For the first time since this whole thing’s started, Ian slows the pace, taking a moment to appreciate the beauty in front of him. Mickey gives him this curious glance but doesn’t complain when Ian pushes gently on his chest, laying his upper body down on the desk.

Ian kneels down alongside, manoeuvring Mickey’s legs upon his shoulders which places him in the in-between of Mickey’s soft inner thighs.

He nozzles his face in the soft flesh and appreciates Mickey’s impatient little puffs above him.

“Can you do something?” the older man asks with an edge, when Ian’s taking his sweet ass time doing nothing except admiring. Ian’s puffy breaths are caressing delicate places of his body and it’s enough to make him go mad.

Ian loves it, loves seeing the confidence emancipate from his professor, only to transform into this whimpering erotic mess. All for him.

“How about you shut it and take what I give you,” his bold-self commands, all-knowing of the affects it has on Mickey.

He is, however, nice enough to indulge Mickey by way of finally _doing something_ , which is to lick a slow strip on Mickey’s hard cock, from the bottom all the way to the leaking tip. He savors the taste and restarts the process once or twice again before removing his mouth from the throbbing dick in his face, focusing instead on something below.

Ian’s fast to push his tongue inside Mickey’s hole and does it so well it elicits loud moans from the other man. Mickey’s arching in his back in sinful ways, exposing more of his parts and offering Ian better angles. He circles around the hole, pushing in with tongue muscles, then backtracking till Mickey’s shaking in moans.

“You look so fucking good right now, Professor Mickey Milkovich, I might just eat you up.”

The moans are louder now, more desperate and Mickey’s tugging on his shoulder to get him closer, almost ripping the arm out of its socket. Ian obliges willingly, lifting himself from his kneeling position and covering Mickey’s body with his taller one, blunt fingernails making their way across the expanse of Ian’s back, fresh marks under them.

Ian covers Mickey’s mouth with his left hand to shield the wicked sounds coming out of it and uses his right hand to replace the loss of tongue inside Mickey.

Fingering his professor; Ian definitely did not expect this turnout when he woke up this morning.

“Wouldn’t want other students to hear you now, do we?” Ian asks rhetorically, with an evil grin.

He pushes a second digit inside when he knows Mickey can take it, the walls around his finger loosening, then repeats the process with a third one. Mickey takes Ian’s hand into his mouth, sucking on two fingers with hollowed cheeks, like a fucking pornstar.

It’s so fucking hot.

Ian traces the lines of Mickey’s lips with his wet finger, loving the way the other man just opens his mouth wider in this perfect o-shape.

Ian’s dick is standing against his stomach like a patriotic American flagpole and he rubs it inside Mickey’s opened legs, between the kerbs of his bent thigh. It feels really fucking good.

“Enough,” Mickey pleas eventually. “Get in me, now.” 

And Ian wants to tease him longer –push and prod till his professor’s a melting mess in his arms, crying to be fucked– but Ian feels desperately close to the edge himself.

“Things. We need the things” he grunts out, the actual terms evading Ian’s brain at the moment.

Mickey is as efficient as ever, reaching for the second drawer of his desk from his resting position. He manages to retract a condom and a pack of cherry-flavored lube. Ian doesn’t waste time putting the rubber on and oiling it as soon as it is.

“Should I be concerned that you keep this stuff in your desk?” he asks cheekily, while occupied with the prep. “Is this a frequent hobby of yours, sleeping with your students? You naughty professor,”

Mickey manages to look affronted and aroused at the same time. “If you think this is my first rodeo, you might be thoroughly disappointed.”

And Ian’s a little stunned; not expecting the answer. Maybe not _thoroughly_ disappointed, but disappointed nonetheless.

It sure as hell is _his_ first time, fucking a teacher and whatnot, on school grounds and whatnot, as sinful as his own sexual history might be.

It warrants jealousy inside him, which is pretty uncalled-for, considering Ian’s known this man for a hot minute. It’s mostly his ego taking the stride, he thinks which opens a whole new can of worms. Because Ian’s ego is as big as his–

“I want that dick, _now_. Give it to me.”

He fulfills the command, gives it to Mickey hard. Fucking hard. Desk shaking and walls vibrating hard. Ian pushes himself inside Mickey with no consideration for gentleness, slides out and slashes himself back in, over and over again, fuelling his actions on the moans and chants of _“Ian, Ian, Ian,”_ coming from below him.

He wants to hear his name resonate through the halls. Through the whole fucking campus.

He wants to fuck Mickey till he’s comatose enough to forget all his previous lovers.

+++

As it turns out, that little green-eyed monster –that stupid thing called jealousy– unexpectedly discovered within him since that first time with Mickey, only grows bigger, the more time he spends with the man.

Because, as it turns out, Mickey is a great lover, both in and outside of the bedroom. He’s witty and kind-hearted, sweet when he wants to be yet sour when he needs to.

He reminds Ian of those bittersweet candies that Debbie loves; the ones with the unbelievably acid envelop that turn sweet once they melt in your mouth.

And like any other sugar-fiend kid, Ian becomes addicted to the taste.

He starts seeking Mickey out. Before class; alone in the professor’s office. During class; when Mickey’s professor manners arouse him in unforeseen ways. After class, too. In the middle of the nights and also in the early mornings.

Which inevitably turns into a problem.

Because fucking your teacher and thirsting over him might be two different levels of twisted. Ones Ian finds himself constantly bouncing from, back and forth.

And because, as it turns out, Mickey is a married.

+++

Mickey is a married man and Ian went through his fair share of married men back in the days; plenty enough for Ian to know it is definitely not for him; being a mistress and shit. Fucking around might be fun from time to time but ultimately, he knows he wants devotion and complete attention from his partner. Which is the fucked-up part, because Mickey manages to be completely devoted and attentive _while_ being married to another.

It’s why Ian doesn’t see it coming when Mickey, this one afternoon, slips an expensive-looking, silver band on his wedding ring finger, completely out the blue. Right after spending hours in bed with Ian, laughing, fucking and just shooting the shit.

They’re in the borders of Mickey’s home, in adjacent suburbs of the university, inside the master bedroom, and Mickey gets out of bed, quickly, _much too quickly_ , for Ian’s liking.

“Is our tutoring session over professor?” Ian teases, laying on his side with an elbow propelled to hold his head, eyes trained on his lover who’s currently covering his naked body with a black silk dressing robe.

_Lover._ Ian had loved the term as soon as it had escaped Mickey’s mouth. He’s acquired it in his daily vocabulary since.

“I’m afraid so, my love. I have things to do that need my pressing attention.” Mickey says with a hint of gloom and it’s enough to make Ian feel better, knowing he’s as missed as he misses.

“I also have a thing for you that needs your pressing attention.”

Mickey laughs, making his way to his expensive boudoir at the end of the vast room. “Maybe I can meet you back at your dorm tonight? Wouldn’t want to impede your growing education.”

And Ian’s about to make another shitty joke –something about how exactly _growing_ he becomes in Mickey’s reach– except he’s stopped by Mickey’s actions when the professor gets a ring out of a jewelry box and places it on a very particular finger.

“Is that a wedding ring?” He asks from the bed, joke forgotten and tone careful. Careful because he’s suddenly filled with so much dread. Wary. Cautious.

All the alarms are ringing in his head.

Mickey stops moving, examining his left hand and the ring it wears. There’s too much happiness in the gaze, too much love, for Ian not to understand immediately.

“Yeah,” Mickey says eventually. Evenly. “Haven’t been wearing it much but John’s coming back from Philly tonight and–”

And Mickey’s not even halfway done with his explanation before Ian’s jumping out bed, picking up his scattered clothes all over the floor to get dressed and get the fuck out.

On Mickey’s behalf, they never had the talk about being exclusive or some shit. This is, after all, a student/teacher love affair. A fling. Something fun and probably reckless. Even Ian can understand that.

But if there’s one thing he can’t deal with its infidelity. It enrages him, the disregard and the insult the action carries. Not after Kash.

Ian’s just finished pulling his jeans on frantically, still shirtless, before the commotion of Mickey’s voice reaches his ears; a persistent thrumming that sounds like _Ian_ getting to him.

“Why are you freaking out?” Mickey asks him once he’s closer and he’s so calm –still so beautiful in his robe– it makes Ian wonder if he’s blowing this out of proportion.

Then he sees the stupid ring shining from Mickey’s hand, twirling in the deceitful light of commitment, promises, vows, love– and gets back to his original plan: getting the fuck out.

“Why am I freaking out?! Maybe because I’ve been unknowingly sleeping with a married man for the better part of the last weeks!” Ian’s almost shouting, panic rising with the rushed words, and Mickey’ still so calm, looks almost amused, and it pisses him off even more.

He throws his shirt on, not caring that it’s backwards. “What the fuck Mickey? Should I be expecting a beatdown from an angry husband? Or wife!” Ian adds on second thought, because he’s realizing he apparently doesn’t know Mickey that well.

Mickey’s laughing now and Ian’s so perplexed at the sordid mirth in which Mickey is taking this all of this that he stills.

“Husband. Haven’t touched a woman in a loooong time” Mickey offers first, sitting on the side of the bed where the covers are still disentangled.

Better, but not by much. He’s not a _gay_ dirty secret, but he’s still a dirty one.

“His name’s John,” Mickey continues and it’s the second time he hears that name and it still makes his blood pressure rise. He really has no desire in learning anything about this fucking husband of Mickey’s. “And he travels a lot,”

This time Ian can’t suppress the eye roll. Fucking cheaters and they’re fucked-up thinking.

“Look, I don’t care about the reasons you find to try to excuse your infidelity; whatever makes you sleep at night. But I want no part of this.”

“It’s not infidelity, though.” Mickey says, calm as ever, unbothered since the beginning of this conversation, as if they were talking about the fucking cold weather outside.

Ian levels him with a cold expression. “I might not have the education of a college professor, Mickey, but I’m sure as hell not stupid either.”

“I’ve told him about you,” Mickey says then, seductive and sweet, reaching for Ian’s long arms to bring him closer.

Ian’s confused again now. What?

It’s all these mixed feelings that disarm him enough to fall for Mickey’s ruse and move within the alluring traps of the professor.

“Told him I found the wittiest, cutest student the other day,” Mickey starts, trailing soothing fingers in circular patterns down Ian’s arms, then his legs, “This hot, spicy, mouthy redhead. How he stumbled in my office with the utmost confidence, begging to fuck me.”

“Didn’t beg,” Ian rectifies, distracted by the hand that just unzipped his pants. “Demanded.”

Mickey relents with a sigh, pushing Ian’s jeans down his legs. “Fine. How he _demanded_ to fuck me. How I said yes and got fucked on my desk. How good it was; how so fucking good it was that I had to do it again. And again, and again,” He stops talking to place soft kisses on Ian’s semi-erect cock.

It’s astounding how fast Ian can get aroused, when he was so mad just a few minutes ago. When Mickey swallows the entirety of his cock in one move, Ian can’t even remember why he was angry in the first place.

“Holy shit. Just like that, Mickey.”

He tangles his hand in Mickey’s hair, guiding the bobs of his head up and down his dick. Up and down then down and up. Faster; building up a good pace. Then, slower. Then all over again. It takes a stretch for Ian to reach the edge of an orgasm, but it comes soon enough.

“Fuck, I want to come in your mouth.”

And it’s so arousing that Mickey can’t even respond with his mouth so full of dick –so he just gives this little nod– that it sends Ian right over the edge, spilling his load down Mickey’s throat, who swallows it with ease and beauty.

Mickey gives Ian a few minutes to recollect, breath back to normal and tinted cheeks discolored, before he resumes the talk.

Right. Ian forgot for a second there.

“John and I… we have this understanding. I am free to do as I wish and he is too. As long as partners are revealed, everything is allowed.”

Ian wants to take the time to think about this, because this is beyond him. Unknown and strange territory. Completely fucked-up is what it is. How can people who claim to love each other allow this shit? How can someone who has Mickey, has all of him, be willing to share? Ian wouldn’t.

Mickey doesn’t give him the time to overthink the revelation, probably because it wouldn’t throw the dice in his favor.

“You may find it weird, may even disagree with it, but I assure you that what my husband and I share makes us free. And I can understand if you’re too uncomfortable and wish for us to stop seeing each other...” Mickey continues while he removes his silky robe and undresses.

It’s a visually-appealing distraction and it fills its purpose with the way Ian stops focusing.

With the stance of a naked model, Mickey finally concedes. “…However saddened I might be.”

And it’s so unsettling, this revelation, this whole day, actually. Ian should take the time to think about it, really think. Sit through it and shit. Maybe talk it over with Lip.

“The next move is yours to make, Ian Gallagher.”

And with the solidarity of a chess pawn used as a bait in the games of a higher power, Ian seals his faith by jumping on Mickey’s ass.

+++

Mickey is married yet life continues.

They still talk, they still fuck. Mickey still teaches him statistics every Tuesday evenings and Ian’s still his student.

But Mickey is married. Happily married, as it appears.

Mickey is happily married to this fucking _Doctor_ , who turns out not to be a doctor at all, just this weird fucking dude who wrote a three-year thesis on the merits of Ancient Greek Philosophy. As pretentious as that sounds, it’s fucking true.

“Then why the fuck do you call him Doctor Wallace?” Ian asks, one night, when Mickey and he are cuddling in bed, post-coital glow and all, after a thorough love-making session in Ian’s dorm room.

Ian’s bed is much smaller than the one in Mickey’s house but Ian kind of likes it better because he gets to pull Mickey closer with the pretext of confined space.

And Ian likes when they’re here. Likes when they’re alone in their own little universe; the one that’s just _Ian &Mickey _in contrary to the actual reality of _Ian &Mickey&John._

Mickey looks exquisitely blissed-out laying down on Ian’s chest, moments away from drifting asleep, and Ian should be feeling just as blissed except, apparently, he can’t stop thinking about Doctor John fucking Wallace.

“He has a PhD, Ian. Stands for Doctor of Philosophy.”

Ian didn’t know what PhD stood for. Doesn’t mean he’s about to admit it though.

“So this guy dedicated years of his life studying dead Greek people and their dead Greek hierarchy?”

It’s as condescending as it is bewildering; Ian can’t believe some people are jaded enough to waste time dwelling on shit that happened years ago. It’s inconceivable in the Southside.

“You don’t like learning about history?”

“As much as I like learning about statistics,” The little dig earns Ian a punch in the shoulder.

“Well, I like it. Almost as much as statistics, as a matter of fact. I think the past yields as much truth about our future as the present does. Humanity tends to repeat history, as they say.”

And it’s when Mickey says shit like that, that Ian has the deepest need to hold him tight and never let him go. He wants to spend nights, debating Mickey on philosophical theories –which he thinks are absolute bullshit by the way– just to see Mickey pout his lips in disagreement. Or nod in praise and approval.

“So what? Humans are cyclical enough to become predictable?”

“I think that’s the gist, yeah. For example,” Mickey continues, professor mode on. “Did you know that the classical antiquity viewed same-sex relationships in a more mundane fashion than most of the world we live in now?”

Ian might have read a thing or two about that so he nods in agreement. “Crazy how the world can progress in such technological ways, yet backtrack in so many others,”

“That’s mostly what John’s thesis is about actually. The pederasty and the whatnots of norms that were socially acceptable back then.”

“ _Pedo_ what now?”

Mickey laughs, angelic music to Ian’s ears. “Pederasty _,_ ” he repeats, pronouncing the word slowly, “Although you’re not too far off. It defines the romantic relationship between a Greek male adult and his younger male lover. _Much_ younger, like mostly still in his teen years.”

When Ian looks starkly disgusted, the term hitting a little too close to home, Mickey giggles again.

“It was socially acceptable back then, as weird as that sounds. Well-acknowledged even.” The professor continues his explanation, with this passion he usually reserves for classroom antics. Ian loves it in and out of school. “It was like this culturally accepted way of freeing men from the bounds of heterosexual marriage.”

“Kind of like what me and you are doing then.” Ian notes cheekily.

It earns him a predictable eye roll. “Calm down, gladiator. I’m not confined in a marriage with a woman and you’re a far cry from being a teenager, with your six-feet build and all.”

“Not my fault I’ve grown to my full-size, unlike some other people in this room.”

“Are you making fun of my height, Ian Gallagher?”

“Even if I did, it’d go far over your head,” Ian can’t help but reply, as corny as the joke is.

That earns him a slap on the arm, a hard one, and when Ian only laughs in reply, Mickey goes to slap him again. Except this time, Ian’s prepared and grabs his wrist, pushing Mickey into the mattress to pin his arm over his head, rolling on top of him at the same time.

Mickey doesn’t seem to mind, not with that glint in his eyes and the way he lifts his head to meet Ian’s lips in a passionate kiss. They kiss again and again, then one more time. But they’re too tired for it to lead to something else, last round still deeply exhausting.

When Ian settles them back into sleeping positions after closing the lights, curling around Mickey’s back with an arm thrown over his midsection, he feels content.

It isn’t for long, though not when Mickey adds, “You should read it then, if you’re so interested with the subject.”

“Read what?” Ian asks, puzzled. He can’t remember their last talk –barely remembers his last name– with the warmth and the sweet aromas radiating from his lover.

“John’s thesis. It’s brilliant and transfiguring. He did so well.”

Ian doesn’t have to see Mickey to _see_ the admiration in his words. The pride. The love.

Suddenly Mickey’s heat feels colder than ice.

+++

The doctor title debacle is, however, far from over.

“Okay but couldn’t they have found another word for _Doctor_ of philosophy? Maybe like ruler of philosophy? Wait no. That sounds too cool.”

“You are such a dork,”

“Master of philosophy?”

“Would hold for a master’s degree. And still too cool.”

“Organizer of philosophy?”

"Incoherent.”

“Bystander of philosophy?”

“Nope.”

“Leader of philosophy?”

“Deceiving.”

“How on Earth is _leader_ deceiving but not doctor!?”

+++

It goes on for weeks actually.

“Come on, Mick! Can’t you admit that the term is misleading?” Ian says when they’re sharing a cigarette in Mickey’s backyard.

Mickey wasn’t kidding when he said his husband travelled a lot; he’s almost never there. Ian’s spending nights and days at their place, and he’s never fucking seen the man. He’s in China momentarily but he could still get a little further away if you ask Ian. Narnia would be better. Hopefully, it’s the next travel destination.

In turn, Ian makes sure to fill the hole, the lack of husband and love, in Mickey’s life. He sleeps in the man’s place, drinks from his mugs, sits in his seat at the dinner table. He even took hold of the guy’s home study when Mickey offered it as a place for him to do homework. Ian's so settled in their house, he's starting to spend more time here than in his confined dorm.

Ian will gladly fill that fucker's shoes if he's dumb enough to not be more appreciative of his husband. It’s too bad for him and too great for Ian.

Which brings him back to the subject at hand.

“John holds a _doctorate_ degree in his field, Ian. How is the term misleading you?” Mickey says as he stumps on the remains of ashes on the ground, shuddering in Ian’s hoodie. It’s getting cold outside as Chicago is in the midst of a chilly fall season.

They make their way back inside, up the stairs and straight to bed.

“Because he isn’t a fucking doctor? He can’t fix my broken bones, can’t heal my cancer, can’t prescribe me drugs; he can’t do shit!”

“You’re referring to a _medical_ doctor. The term doctor however, is much larger than that and holds many more sub-categories.” Mickey explains, stepping out of his pants once they’re inside the room. He keeps Ian’s hoodie on, to his greatest pleasure, when he slides under the covers of the bed.

And admittedly, Ian knows Mickey is right about this doctor debacle. He tends to be in most cases, that sexy well-educated professor. But it’s so much fun, teasing his lover. Riling him up till he gets red and the face and obnoxious. Especially when it concerns that fucking husband of is.

And if Mickey’s most prominent trait is to always be right, Ian’s is to be a pushy, mouthy motherfucker.

And so, he pesters. Annoyingly so, he’s aware.

“Okay Mickey baby, let me set the scene for you then,” Ian starts, throwing a hand around Mickey’s shoulder to press him close in the side of his torso where the man so perfectly fits.

“…You’re at a restaurant, enjoying a nice romantic meal with your lovely husband. You’re about to be served a juicy, rare steak, just the way you like them. All of a sudden!”

And Ian shakes Mickey’s shoulders to add drama, “The guy next to you has a heart attack and collapses on the floor! Frantic, your waitress shrieks ‘we need to save this man’s life! Is anyone here a doctor?’” And Ian lays thick on the theatrics by throwing a higher pitch to voice the imaginary waitress.

“Of course,” he continues “being the prideful husband that you are, you’re quick to exclaim ‘Why of course, little darling! I’m married to the amazing Doctor John Wallace–

“So in this scenario I’m a woman,” Mickey interrupts, not impressed with the weird voice used to imitate him. He’s resting his head on Ian’s shoulder, looking intrigued and annoyed at the same time. “And also Southern?”

Ian has the nerve to shush him. Finger to his mouth and all. “Hush Mickey baby, I’m in the middle of a story.”

Clearing his throat, he’s back in narrator mode, “So Doctor Wallace stands up, making his way to the dying man. _Except_ , when the crowd waits with withheld gasps for the expert to start resuscitation, he starts waxing poetic about Athens and its wonder–”

“Okay, Ian. I get your point, we can move forward now.”

“–The man dies inevitably, unsaved by philosophy. The crowd boos the doctor, throwing tomatoes at his head–”

“Ian, I’m admitting you’re right. Shut the fuck up!”

“–You’re so embarrassed, you escape home alone. Except the nightmare isn’t over! In the following days–”

“Ian, Jesus Christ. Enough already!”

“–the whole town hears about the misdemeanor and your husband becomes the laughing stock–”

“ _IAN!_ ” Mickey shouts, jumping on Ian’s lap, no longer amused. His patience thins quite fast. “What is it going to take for you to shut up about this nonsense?”

Getting Mickey riled up _and_ bargaining? Mission accomplished for Ian.

Shrugging, he suggests casually, “Turn around and let me eat your ass.”

“Occupying your mouth _while_ being pleasured? Two birds, one stone.” Mickey says grinning, moving around to lay on his stomach.

When Ian goes to town on his ass, Mickey ponders on the _absurdity_ of the shit Ian’s just pulled. “You know you’d make a pretty great comedian, if your business plans ever fall through.”

When Ian licks a spot quite close to Mickey’s prostate but not exactly there either, he adds on second thought, “Or you could write and narrate stories for children, fairytales and stuff.”

When Ian lifts his head up and Mickey whimpers at the loss of warmth, it’s only for the cheeky bastard to reply, “My fairytales all revolve around you baby,”

Then he dives back in and hits the perfect spot instantly, making Mickey cry out in pleasure, engrossed enough to forget his witty comeback.

+++

“I had this pretty great ending for my story, earlier.”

“Oh my god, Ian. Please don’t start this again.”

“Okay so after months of rumors flying around the village, your husband is trialed with the murder of Florient the third Hemington; that’s the name of the dude he killed by the way.”

“He has a name now? And he didn’t kill him!”

“That would be for the trial to determine now, would it? As I was saying, after weeks of deliberating, the trial finds your husband guilty of third-degree murder. He is immediately condemned to the electric chair,”

“You can’t get death penalty for third-degree murder, Ian.”

“You can in my village.”

“Then I call for an appeal of the court’s ruling.”

“Nice touch but sadly, after careful consideration, the court rejects your appeal. And your husband can no longer refute his–”

“Then I demand to know on what grounds was the appeal rejected.”

“My grounds! Can you stop interrupting and let me finish the goddamn story so we can go to bed? There’s this awesome ginger aristocrat who comes in to save the day.”

“Of course there is.”

+++

It doesn’t take long for Ian to realize he would do pretty much anything for Mickey.

Like, Mickey would ask him to jump off a cliff and Ian would go down willingly, dropping to his death with honor. That type of shit.

Mickey loves coffee but hates making it so Ian always sets his alarm fifteen minutes early in the morning to wake his lover up with a vitalizing drink.

“Strong and sweet, just how I like it.” The teacher says, humming appreciatively around a heated mug, describing the taste Ian seems to nail so dead on every time.

(Describing Mickey too. Honestly.)

Mickey has a strange phobia of talking to strangers on the phone so, Ian makes sure to always order whenever they feel like eating take out, going as far as placing a call with customer service for a delayed order on behalf of Mickey, for a gift he’d ordered online.

An birthday gift for his fucking husband. Who's turning a hundred years old. Some fucking collection book or something… Through no fault of his own and with mighty efforts on his part, the gift still doesn’t get there on time. Oh well.

This one night, Mickey has this event to attend on behalf of the mathematics and statistics department of the university. Some pretentious Gala thrown for some pretentious cause with a bunch of pretentious people, Mickey excluded.

Ian’s just bitter that Mickey attends these things without him because they obviously can’t be seen together.

But Mickey isn’t thrown by going unaccompanied, rather, he throws himself in the open bar. A few hours in the night, and Ian’s lover seems highly inebriated, judging by the latest texts he’s received. Ian figures the dirtier and more misspelled they get, the more Mickey’s had to drink.

Hence why Ian starts worrying when the next incoming text reads: _wt u ot dtsty my sasss tonggrt_

It’s enough to warrant a call.

“My love!” Mickey cries out when his voice finally comes through the phone, disgruntled and distanced, all kind of noises filling in the background.

And it’s…it’s nice to be acknowledged like this on the phone. In this almost public way. It’s sweet.

“Mick, you okay?”

“Me? I’m great! Awesome! Ecstatic!” The words are slurred, followed by a hiccup and a startled laugh.

“You sure sound happy. I take it the event was more fun than you expected.” There’s this taste again. Bitterness. Just because Mickey is having fun without him? That can't be normal. Ian needs to take a chill pill. Hold his horses. Keep his shirt on. At least one of the above.

“Yeah, actually…I might have had a little too much to drink” It’s confessed with reluctance, like it’s an embarrassing secret to admit.

“Do you know how you’re getting home?” Ian asks, not knowing if home refers to Mickey’s house in the suburbs or his own dorm room, in this case. It’s one or the other, though.

Mickey takes a moment to reply, like the issue has only just occurred to him. “Not sure yet. Too much to think about right now.”

It’s really not.

“Can you just promise you’ll take a taxi?” Ian relents with a sigh, the feelings of worry and protectiveness so foreign for him. Probably the first time in his life they concern someone outside of the Gallagher family, Frank excluded.

“Fuck I can’t! I parked my car here, and I need it for tomorrow morning.”

And really, Ian’s wondering how this college professor, this educated man, can make such undevised plans sometimes. It’s unlike the Mickey he knows. What is less unlikely, is the fact that Ian finds these inconsistencies –these small pieces of puzzle that will eventually come together to unveil the mystery of Mickey Milkovich– as endearing as they can be infuriating. Sometimes, it’s like the puzzle is inevitably missing fragments and Ian can’t let the thing go even if it’ll never be whole.

Sometimes, it’s just fun to play the game.

Mickey eventually sympathises “You don’t have to worry about me, I’ll find–

But Ian’s made up his mind, in the midst his poetically challenged thoughts, “I’ll come get you so that I can drive the car back.”

“Really? You’d do that for me?” Mickey sounds incredulous, as if he can’t believe Ian would be kind enough to fuck up his own plans just for him.

It is Thursday night and it’s pretty late and he’s already exhausted, dreading his upcoming morning class. He had to cancel plans with Lip tonight –who he hasn’t seen in forever– because he needs to finish this mid-term essay for tomorrow afternoon’s class; essay he still has five pages to write.

Plus, Mickey’s far away –like twenty train stations and two buses away– and it’s pouring rain outside.

Then again, it is Mickey. His Mickey.

Who is he kidding.

“I’d do anything for you. I’ll be there in forty minutes.”

+++

When Mickey wakes him up the next morning with a nice breakfast in bed –not even savoring his own delicious pancakes because he’s too hungover to eat– Ian thinks it was all worth it. It always is, in Mickey’s case.

And when Mickey spends the better half of his morning finishing Ian’s essay –basically rewriting the whole thing– ignoring work calls and emails to focus on the project; persevering, even through a painful headache; Ian thinks maybe Mickey would do pretty much anything for him too.

+++

“I’m guessing my paper on the sociology gender evolution of women didn’t pass the stands of your philosophical high-ground, then?”

“You made a good premise but it was far too aggressive in its tone to be considered scholastic. I’ve fixed it though, my beloved, don’t worry.”

“Thank you, my love. But I don’t know what you mean about the tone. It was passionate, in my humble opinion.”

“Ian, you can’t call your primary example of female role model ‘a subliminally deceitful cunt’ and I quote.”

“Well if you’d met my mother, you’d find the term quite appropriate. Underwhelming, even.”

+++

When Ian said he’d do pretty much anything for Mickey, he really meant it.

His chance to prove his words (admittedly unwarranted) comes one morning, in the form of a sexy Mickey Milkovich straddling his lap.

Ian feels the presence of his beloved before he’s even fully awake, the feel of strong thighs enveloping him, the sweet smell of citrus that screams Mickey engulfing his nose.

Mickey sees him waking up, and leans down to pecker Ian’s face with kisses. One on the forehead and one on the jaw. One on the shell of his left ear and one on the tip of his nose.

When Ian opens his eyes, he’s not expecting to be greeted with the stunning sight of a naked Mickey. His arms automatically reach for the man in front of him, searching to grip sturdy hips.

“Good morning, my love. We’ve been waiting for you.” Mickey tales, rolling delicious hips into Ian’s awakening pelvis.

And Ian’s too delighted by the casually-thrown term of endearment, too charmed with Mickey’s sensual awakening, too pleased with the sight and feel of pale flesh around him, to notice the very problematic, very alarming use of a _plural_ pronoun in Mickey’s words.

Ian sees him before he even registers the grammatical clue, blaming his still awakening brain for time-consuming processing pace.

When Ian first notices the man behind Mickey standing in the corner of the bedroom, his initial instinct is to protect Mickey from the looming threat and he sits up instantly, trying to gather the sheets around them to hide the juxtaposition of their naked bodies.

Mickey is however quick to stop Ian in his tracks and repositions him on his back.

“Let me take care of you, my love.” Mickey says, touches as soft as the Egyptian cotton sheets they’re lying in, voice as silky as the velvet tapestry that covers the headboard.

Ian thinks he’s acting very poised when Ian feels anything but. It’s not the first time this happens; the confusion and the anxiety reminds him of that time –that only time– Mickey and Ian had fought, concerning secret nuptials affairs.

He takes another look at the guy in the back, and it takes a moment for Ian to conciliate the image he’s had in his mind of Mickey’s husband and the real deal. Doctor John Wallace the fantasy vs Doctor John Wallace the reality.

And really Ian wants to laugh because this guy, this joke of a man, is posing as Mickey’s soulmate? The love of his life?

He’s way too old for one, older than Mickey, and he looks a year away from being completely bald. Not to mention, the ugly fucking round-shaped glasses covering half of his face. Fucking pretentious philosophers.

“John came back from New York earlier than expected,” Mickey explains, bringing Ian back to the present. “Found us in bed, sleeping together, holding each other. Thought he might catch a quick show.”

And Ian still wants to laugh because this motherfucker is nodding excitingly in the back, like the pervert he is. But the way Mickey is rolling his hips onto his is precisely grounding.

Still, he’s not convinced with…with whatever this is they’re asking from him. Cockholding is it? He’s going to have to check for the correct term later.

“Is he going to touch himself?” Ian asks apprehensively.

Mickey glances back, sharing a look with his husband and it’s so open and uniting, Ian thinks he might be sick. He feels the tent previously straining his boxers deflate. Mickey feels it too but is swift to react, leaning forward and placing tentative kisses, over the cloth of his boxers and above them, palming his dick through the fabrics and moaning at the appropriate moments.

“Not if you don’t want to.” Mickey concedes and his words and actions are enough to turn Ian back on.

Mickey notices the reappearance of Ian’s dick as fast as he’d noticed its disappearance and rewards the younger man by relieving him from the confines of his underwear, hand wrapping around his cock.

“Talk? Comment? Moan?” Ian continues, and if his disdain for the third man in the room is evident, he really can’t find it in him to care.

Mickey laughs freely, hand pumping down Ian with more grip and speed. “Won’t make a sound. Like a true spectator in a movie theater alright? Fly on the wall type of thing.”

And that’s good enough.

If John could indeed turn into a fly and Ian could smash him in between his fingers that would be perfect, but as it occurs, Ian doesn’t know any black magic.

He settles for fucking the guy’s husband in front of his very face, intent on showing exactly who Mickey belongs to.

“Let’s get this show on the road, then,” He says coolly, pushing Mickey back, hard enough for him to fall back on the upside of the bed which happens to be right into the doctor’s line of vision. Ian drags Mickey back to him by the back of his knees, proceeding onto giving him the most thorough fucking of his life.

+++

The thorough fucking did nothing to unsettle Doctor John Wallace. He doesn’t look threatened either, like he either doesn’t know Ian’s coming for his throne or he doesn’t care.

In lieu, when they finish up –after Mickey comes with a shout and Ian shadows him by unloading his release inside his lover– the husband starts clapping.

Actual fucking clapping. Like they’re actors who just delivered a great theatrical performance.

(And they did. Definitely outdid their selves. It just wasn’t on his behalf.)

Mickey looks delighted with the praise, he’s smiling bashfully and blushing, and Ian swears, if Mickey actually bows for the applauds, he’s throwing himself out the window.

“Honey, you weren’t lying. The boy does have the stamina of a stallion.” John says, the bigot, without a grain of mockery, he’s actually serious.

Ian must look as baffled as he feels. 

And now, Mickey turns to face him and there’s so much adoration, so much pride in his eyes and something so close to love that it is vexing.

Vexing for Ian, to not be able to bask in the affections of his lover because he’s weirded out by this whole situation.

“Isn’t he great?” Mickey agrees with his husband, eyes still on Ian. Then he’s leaning towards his student, clinching the deal with a kiss.

And they’ve shared a hundred kisses like this one but it’s just so sweet, so soft in its stand, nothing sexual and everything sensual, that it holds even more intimate regards for Ian.

It feels wrong, _worse_ , displaying this in front of this intruder. And he’s aware that he was balls-deep in the guy’s husband a hot minute ago.

Thankfully, Doctor Fucker doesn’t clap in congratulations this time.

Tragically, he says something worse.

Something like, “Well you guys, must have worked up quite the appetite. How about I make some eggs!”

+++

Ian doesn’t want to eat Mickey’s disgusting husband’s disgusting eggs.

He is however, a Gallagher, which means he knows what it’s like to be a famished kid below the poverty line.

Which means it’s in his blood to never refuse free food. It’s like, _Gallagher’s Scouts Honor_.

So he eats the fucking eggs and sits through the most uncomfortable brunch ever, repulsed by Mickey and his husband playing all lovey-dovey in front of him.

The self-hatred doesn’t go down as fast as the eggs.

+++

“Do you still fuck him?” Ian asks one time, when they’re decompressing from singularly intense and mutual orgasms, lounging in bed.

They’d done it with the lights off this time, which isn’t usually Ian’s preference, but he has to admit there's something special about touching, kissing, _feeling_ Mickey without the predominant sense of sight clouding the smaller details, like Mickey’s smell, the melody of his moans or the warmth of his insides. It can be quite the blinding experience.

And it should be enough to keep him in a good mood. But the thing with using sex as a distraction from your problems, is that it can only last so long, in this case being the timeframe of four shared orgasms. Now that it's over and done with, Ian's left with intrusive thoughts on the lover that he has to share.

Ultimately the little cockholding –he did double check the term– experience didn’t really sit right with Ian, gathering from the way he's been obsessively replaying the scene ever since.

It’s like he can’t get over the fact that this husband person, this John, is fucking real, the proof of seeing him in the flesh too tangible to forget. Before, it was easier to ignore John’s existence and forget that Mickey is married to this stranger that spends half his time out of Chicago. Easier to pretend Mickey isn’t really happy, isn’t satisfied in this relationship. Easier to pretend Mickey is his.

The lie is harder to swallow now. Not after witnessing what he witnessed; the care and the comforting familiarity they share together; the love Mickey holds for the man.

Hence the intrusive thoughts.

Hence Ian taking advantage of the dark, driven to say the things he could never say in the exposed candor of the light because he can’t hide emotions. His face reveals it all.

Mickey still turns to face him in the dark and Ian holds his breath.

“Who?” Mickey asks innocently enough, probably not expecting the feverish reaction it unleashes.

Because Ian’s about to lose his goddamn mind if he learns he’s sharing Mickey with yet another fucking person.

“ _John_! Who the fuck else?” Ian barks, the man’s name like poison on his tongue, and the tightness in his chest doesn’t go down with Mickey’s responding, all-knowing laughter. “If I’m about to find out the existence of a third man in your life, I might lock you in my basement and keep you there.”

Mickey’s smiling like this is funny, like Ian isn’t actually considering doing this shit. He might not have a basement but he’s feeling enough craziness and creativity to figure out an alternate option.

“Just two men in my life, Ian. Keeps me sufficiently occupied.”

“Good.” Ian states, solidifying his grip on the smaller man. He doesn’t even care that he looks like an irrational, possessive boyfriend right now. Maybe he should.

Taking the lack of reaction from Mickey as a sign to go on with the intrusive questioning, Ian decides to pester.

“So do you?” 

“Do I what?”

“Do you still fuck John, Mickey.” Ian states cruelly, rolling his eyes; acts still hidden by the pitch blackness. “Dammit! Can you be an active participant in this conversation?”

Mickey yawns.

It’s a diversion. He knows Mickey well enough by now. “I don’t want to talk about this, Ian. Can we just go to sleep?”

“Just answer my question.” Ian asks again, pretty close to begging. Pathetic, he’s aware.

Mickey doesn’t reply and Ian isn’t stupid enough to think the older man fell asleep this quickly.

He’s being ignored, plain as day, Mickey having apparently said all he had to say.

Well, it’s not good enough for Ian and the silence is all too-knowing in the obvious answer not being given.

It’s all Ian can think about; John and Mickey fucking. Mickey and John fucking. _Making love_ , they probably fucking call it.

The image his sordid brain fabricated to fuel his obsession is repulsing to the point where it haunts him in the night, even with Mickey close to him. _Especially_ with Mickey close to him.

But it’s like, if Mickey can portion his affection between them and John gets the husband title all to himself, Ian too, wants something of Mickey’s that he doesn’t have to share. That is his and only his to enjoy. Something private and intimate that can fool him into thinking what they have is just as special.

Something being sex.

He wants Mickey to only find pleasure through _his_ hands. If he can’t have his heart and soul then he wants his body. With exclusive rights.

And it’s far outside the boundaries of the casual relationship they’re supposed to have, but right now, he’s in such a state of desperation that he makes himself believe that it’s fair.

Because Mickey has his soul, heart and body. Without even asking for them, without even wanting, he owes them.

Ian tries to calm himself, find inner peace or some shit, because he feels close to slipping on this very slippery slope between normal jealousy and psychopathic tendencies. Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat the cycle till it works. Another breath in, another breath–

“Do you like fucking him better than you like fucking me?” It comes out unknowingly on his exhale, and it’s cruel again and crude but Ian’s too mad right now to be logical.

When he’s met with expected muteness again, Ian has to try really hard to contain himself against lashing out on Mickey, about to trash the entirety of his dorm room –the whole fucking floor too– just to meet destruction as damaged and broken as he feels inside.

Ian finds difficulty sleeping that night, heart heavy and sulking. He breathes in and out, over and over again and counts them. He gets to sixty. It’s a worthless distraction.

Hours later, moments before he’s drifting out of consciousness, he hears a coy voice say, “Don’t ask me questions you don’t want the answer to, my love. It hurts me to hurt you.”

+++

If Ian considered fucking Professor Mickey Milkovich one of his top three worst decisions ever, falling in love with him had to be ranked number one.

Except falling in love hadn’t been much of a decision on his part; not an actively-deliberated choice like deciding to fuck Mickey had been. More of a culminating, snowball assessment, of bad decisions and terrible choices resulting in the devastating emotional outcome mentioned above.

So really, it leads back to blaming the initial decision.

Most importantly, the ranking collapses and Ian’s entire belief system, his morally-composed decision-making process, is screwed.

Even more important; Ian himself is screwed.

Worse, he doesn’t even know it yet.

+++

When Mickey cancels their following planned sexcapade rendezvous, Ian knows something is wrong.

When Mickey goes out of his way to ignore Ian, cancelling office hours they usually spend fucking, Ian realizes what is wrong exactly.

He’s showed all his cards is what it is; the entire deck was revealed and Ian’s left with nothing to unveil in the next round of the game. He was too transparent in his words, his actions; trying to claim something that was never his to claim. And now, Mickey knows he’s too attached, too far gone in this relationship, too committed to leave even though this will most likely end with devastating consequences.

He’s got to fix it though; got to find a way to fix it now, because he misses Mickey so much already. He’s realizing having to share Mickey is better than not having him at all, and it might sound like settling for less but it’s not because there’s no other option.

It’s like Ian never understood the depths of the grip Mickey holds on him and the implications they come with.

Ian thinks he might have one more trick up his sleeve, one being a romantic gesture that Mickey will obviously not see coming. Because what doesn't show impartiality like romance? It might not make a lot of sense but it does for Ian. Ultimately, he just wants the chance to talk to Mickey. Apologize for his behaviour, maybe explain without giving too much away.

Ian decides to ambush Mickey twenty minutes before their Tuesday class, when he knows the man is hiding in the confines of the classroom; the office being too obvious.

He’s prepared in his script to be taken back (prepared to beg on his knees if it comes to it) however and comes handy with a bouquet of flowers.

It’s not just any flowers though, it’s an artfully arranged assemblage of white and pink anemones –pretty expensive for fucking flowers if you ask him– and Ian really meant it when said he came in prepared.

“According to Greek mythology,” Ian starts once he’s close enough for Mickey to hear him, not omitted to the teacher’s widened gaze at the sight of his student coming forward, “Anemones sprang out from the tears Aphrodite shed in the mourning her lover, Adonis.”

Ian hands the flowers over to Mickey who takes in this almost bashful manner.

“Do you know of their love story?” he asks even though he’s sure Mickey does.

“Refresh my memory,” the professor requires, wanting to test Ian on his knowledge.

“Aphrodite, goddess of love, became enamored with her mortal lover, Adonis. He was killed by the gods because they were jealous of their love affair, refusing to share Aphrodite’s beauty.”

He adds sheepishly, “Figured the story was fitting enough.”

“Did you come here to tell me you’re planning on killing my husband?” Mickey asks wittily, twirling one of the white flowers in his hands.

“No, I came here to apologize for being a dick. A greedy dick. I never want you to be upset, let alone be the reason for it. That means respecting your marriage with John and of all of your other boundaries,”

“I guess I’m forced to accept your apology, with a gesture as romantic as this,” Mickey says eventually, teasing smile on his lips. “Even though you keep confusing my interest for ancient philosophy with mythology.”

“One is definitely more interesting than the other and you’ve made the wrong choice.”

It makes Mickey laugh but it’s too quickly followed by a sigh, “I wasn’t mad Ian but I can’t help but think maybe we’re going a little over our heads with this.”

“If this about me being jealous, don’t sweat it, alright? Because I’m not anymore. I’m fine with being casual, I swear to God.”

The lie rolls of his tongue so quickly, it’s almost discerning how much he’s willing to compromise just to keep Mickey. Maybe he shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain but he’s hoping he’ll be excused by the seriousness of what’s at stakes here.

Mickey doesn’t look like he believes him one second but instead of calling him out on it, he says “You want to know how I wasn’t mad after the jealous shitshow you pulled on me?”

Ian raises an eyebrow that says _humour me_ as much as it says _I’m really trying to look uncaring but I’m obviously not._

“Because I put myself in your shoes and thought about you with someone else…” Mickey shudders like even saying it is too much to bare. “and it hurt, just thinking it hurt me.”

Seeing this genuine ache in Mickey makes Ian want to comfort him, as backwards as the feeling is.

He responds too quickly, too obvious. “I’m not. No else but you.”

And Mickey smiles but it’s a sad smile. “But that’s not the case for me and that’s the problem. I can’t give you what you have the right to want, not–”

It sounds like _not now_. Not now but maybe later. Not right now but eventually, maybe. It fuels the hope in Ian’s heart.

Mickey never finishes his sentence, maybe realizing how cruel it is to give someone false hope. He settles for. “I just can’t.”

But Ian’s pathetic enough to read between the lines.

“And I’m ok with that” is what Ian says.

but really, the in-between in his lines read _I’ll wait for you, as long as I have to. Because I think I’m falling in love with you._

Whether Mickey can hear the meaning behind it or not, he gives over, saying. "Alright. If you say so."

+++

Maybe things between them should have been weird after that, but they’re not.

Whatever reservations Mickey was having are gone and Ian doesn’t know if he’s that good at being convincing or if it’s something else entirely. Whatever it is, it’s fortunate for him so he doesn’t think too much about it.

“Can I ask you a question Mick?”

“If it has something to do with my marriage’s sexual saga again, I’ll refrain from answering.”

“It doesn’t, I promise.” Ian laughs, and he’s not sure if he likes that they’re making jokes about this now. “I was just wondering how come you’ve ended up majoring in maths if you’re so interested in philosophy.”

“Hmm…Honestly, I don’t think I even knew what philosophy was when I entered college. I was good with numbers, so I followed the easiest path. My career choice had less to do with passion than with the need of finding a sustainable career.”

“So kind of like me then,”

“ _Exactly_ like you. In more ways than you can think.” There’s something there but Ian doesn’t know what it is precisely.

“So John’s the one who pampered you into all the philosophical shit then?”

“Watch it, Ian.” Mickey threatens but the way he settles his head on to Ian’s chest says he doesn’t mean it.

“My bad.” Ian apologizes but the way he’s grinning also says he doesn’t mean it all.

+++

Sometimes, Ian thinks he’s really falling for Mickey. Other times, he finds the idea to ludicrous to indulge.

Ultimately, he’s never been in love so he doesn’t know what to really expect. Doesn’t know if he’ll know when love will strike but he thinks there should be an admission or an eye-opening moment or just something, to decipher feelings from…well, feelings.

Fiona says love comes after time, after the person proves worthy of it. It’s not so much falling in love as it is deciding where, when and how you land. Love is earned, like trust, and it’s calculated, like money. Ian finds the whole thing pretty cynical; he hopes there’s more to it.

Debbie says love strikes you in a particular moment, the most unexpected feeling taking over. One moment you live, un-loving and boring, and the next you meet your soulmate and _bang!_ The world revolves on its axis and your heart fills with love and joy. Although sweet, the belief is too childlike, too fairytale-ish for Ian to accept.

Mickey says love isn’t as overwhelming as the movies make it out to be; it’s far less bold and way more devious. It fulfills the smallest moments in life, slipping its way into the tiniest of cracks. It’s not that striking to grasp because it’s everywhere and all around. But once you do, you can’t let it go. It’s way less overbearing and much more consuming in its simplicity.

+++

It turns out Mickey is right, as foreseeable as that is. Ian is also right, because there is an eye-opening realization involved in the process.

When it comes though, when it finally strikes Ian coming from miles away, he finds the feeling of love so familiar in its unknown, so old in its newness, _that it had_ to have been here all along.

It had to. It was just hiding in the details, just like Mickey said.

In this case, the details come in the form of a disheveled bed, a conversation, a revelation and a book.

They’re lying in bed, side by side, contempt with the silence the Milkovich house offers in contrast to the dormitories. Doctor Husband is on a long journey away from home, touring Europe with the pretense of something as useless as philosophical book signings. Ian’s jealousy always disappears with the guy when he leaves, strangely or not.

Which means they’ve spent these past days wrapped in a bubble of happiness. Of course, because good things can never just be, the bubble pops today.

Leading them back to the moment in the now, in bed, with Mickey leaning on the headboard, drowning in the pages of a manuscript.

And Ian on his side, tracing random patterns into Mickey’s hip absentmindedly, drowning in the sights of Mickey.

“What are you reading?” Ian starts, done with the silence already.

“A thousand ways to kill your annoying students,” Mickey replies, serious as ever.

Ian indulges him. “What number are you on?”

“Number. 476” he continues lying, unbothered.

“And what is the specific method chosen in this mass-murdering?”

“Serving Kool-Aid drinks spiked with cocaine instead of sugar.” Mickey replies with a huff, closing his reading material. Mickey knows his ginger lover too by now; knows he won’t stop talking till he’s properly nattered.

“Funnily enough, I know a guy who died just like that back home.”

Mickey sighs again but now he sounds distant, far away from Ian. “Yeah, me too.”

That stops Ian in his tracks, stops the doodles he’s outlining on Mickey’s skin.

That can’t be a coincidence, can it?

“I’ve never thought to ask,” Ian says, casually and he’s seriously wondering how it is that the question has evaded him for so long. “But where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

Eye roll. Ian knows this already. Sometimes pulling information out of Mickey is like pulling teeth.

“More specifically?” he inquires, still sweetly, starting back the invisible drawings on Mickey’s skin.

Mickey levels him with a look, one with enough levels of internal conflict for Ian to understand he doesn’t really want to talk about this. With an exhale, the older man relents, “Southside of Chicago, back of the yards. Born and bred.”

The doodling stops again. Ian – child that he is– can’t hide the astonishment that floods his face.

What the fuck? Mickey is from back home? How did he not know this?

What the fuck?

“Ian, I’m telling you because I know precisely just how persistent and annoying you can get when you want something,” And Ian ignores the backhanded insult, still high on the wave of shock. “It doesn’t mean I want to talk about it, _ever_. Understood?”

“Got it. Loud and clear.”

“And this is not something I share with people, alright? Not with students not even with friends. Please keep it to yourself, I’m trusting you with this.”

“Does John know?”

And why is that the question that he asks? Out of all the ones he has. Maybe the jealousy and the need to compete aren’t as far away as he likes to pretend.

“Of course he knows. He’s my husband.” Mickey defends with nervous eyebrows, his most obvious tell, and it’s enough proof for Ian to know there’s more to it than what is said.

But Ian’s not pushing his luck. Not tonight. Not with this latest revelation he hasn’t processed yet. He lets his lover retrieve to his reading stuff, picking up where he was previously interrupted.

He can’t believe Mickey grew up so close to him, with a few years short on a decade of distance of course, but it’s still much closer than Ian thought Mickey could ever fit into his life. His real life, the one of poverty and family, not this little interruption of college education and classiness. The one he knows he’ll inevitably come back to.

Mickey has apparently done a really good job at leaving the past behind with locked doors but Ian knows he could never. As much as he hates it sometimes, he loves it too. It’s a part of him, like a third kidney written Southside on it, living within him with all the other organs that pledge his existence. Ian remembers mentioning where he came from in that first talk he had with Mickey, his Southside roots blending into every part of his life. He remembers seeing a hint of recognition in Mickey’s eyes, as quick as it was to leave.

Thinking back, Ian doesn’t understand how Mickey managed to evade their common upbringing till this point because it’s all Ian talks about; all he knows really, family and Southside.

Once again, he finds himself wondering how many things Mickey keeps from him.

Being shut out by the one person you really care about, well, it feels as bad as it sounds. And it’s becoming disdainfully familiar.

He’s worked himself up now and, bastard that he is, he pushes his luck. Just a little bit.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Mickey ignores his question, responding with one of his own. “Was I not clear when I said this is not a subject of discussion?”

The tone Mickey takes is defensive and short and it just pumps him up. Ian ignores his question, right back. “Aren’t you fucking sick of keeping shit from me?”

Mickey’s surface turns colder, stone-like, and Ian’s seen this happen enough to know he’s closing himself in. Ian isn’t letting that happen this time.

“I don’t know what rights you think you’re owed to, Ian–”

“Really? You really want to go down that road right now? I fuck you every day, I cuddle you, cook for you, I sleep in your bed every fuck–”

“My _husband_ ’s bed, not yo–”

“ _Do not_ bring him into this!” he cuts through voice hissing and rising at the dare mention of the title. Thunder is gleaming in his eyes and it directs his tone and body too, with the way he jumps out of bed, before Mickey can finish that despicable sentence.

There’s a moment of waiting around, like Mickey is trying to figure out the correct words to say next. He always does this, always fights so calm and well-mannered when all Ian wants to do is for them to rip each other to shreds. It enrages him, makes him want to be mean enough to tear Mickey apart, to make him feel as bad as he feels.

“If this isn’t working for you anymore then you can put your big boy pants on and end it. But don’t fucking put this on me because I was clear from the start on–”

“You’ve been _nothing_ from clear, Mickey! You didn’t tell me you were married and you dropped the fucking bomb out of nowhere! Then you tell me you’d be upset over me being with other people yet you still keep fucking your husband. We’ve been basically shacking up since he left you here all alone and now you want to pretend I mean nothing to you?”

“I never said or pretended that, Ian…” and the confession would almost be sweet if the discourse around it wasn’t so bitter. “…But this. This has to stop. Lying to me about being fine with stuff and then throwing it in my face a second later. Getting jealous and mad over dumb shit. You’re acting like a fucking child.”

“And you’re not?! Keeping stupid shit from me just to fucking spite me. Making sure I don’t find out just how alike we are so you can feel all mighty and important?”

“What the fuck are you on right now? It’s not my fault that you feel shitty about your life. How about you stop projecting your insecurities and your problems on me.”

“How about you admit that you think you’re too fucking good for someone still stuck in the Southside, with your job and your fucking big house and your perfect shitshow, scam of a marriage!”

“Fuck you and your worthy Southside bullshit! You have no idea what–”

But Ian’s on a roll.

“You laughed in my fucking face when I told you I had dreams of getting out of the Southside like you didn’t do the exact same fucking thing. But I would never be shallow enough to be ashamed of where I come from, unlike your coward–”

“ _Enough!_ ”

It’s Mickey’s turn to encounter fury.

He doesn’t jump from his sitting position like Ian did nor does he start screeching insults over injuries like Ian also did. Instead, Mickey grabs the book, the one that’d been sitting in his lap since the start of the fight, and throws the whole brick with angered force, aiming directly for Ian’s head.

Ian’s quick to move out of the way, ducking to avoid the flying book-turned-weapon, so the projectile hits the wall behind Ian, on behalf of his face.

It knocks over a vase in its place, landing with reverberation on the floor beneath, effectively shutting Ian, Mickey, and the whole world, up.

For like a second.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Ian. None! This has _nothing_ to do with and you manage to make it all about your goddamn self, you selfish asshole!”

And Ian is ready to fight again, always prepared in the face of adversity and violence. Scream at Mickey that it’s his own goddamn fault because he never lets him in when–

When he sees tears in Mickey’s eyes; the fright and the pain they hold that hides behind the exhibited anger.

It shuts him down. Like a power switch turned off.

He’s pushed too far. Again. Fuck. 

Ian falls back on the bed and reaches for Mickey softly. The older man retreats further on his side, in hurt or anger or maybe both, and Ian doesn’t wince because he doesn’t deserve to.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Mickey. I don’t know why I push things too far sometimes.”

It seems to shut Mickey down, in his turn. The fight leaves him, like the tension in the room, and now all there’s left is pain. And shreds of hope of reconciliation.

With no more anger to hide behind, Mickey’s face crumbles and he starts crying.

Ian can’t sit here and do nothing. He places himself behind his lover, arms around him, and Mickey naturally falls back in his chest, hiding his wet cheeks into the crook of Ian’s neck.

Ian hates the quiets cries he’s hearing. Hates the dampness on his shirt and the vibrations of a sobbing Mickey in his chest, shoulders tensing up and down with ache.

Hates that it’s mostly his fault.

“You're right, Mickey, I am an asshole. I’m so sorry. I never should have said those things, I didn’t mean them.” He apologizes again, placing soothing kisses on top of Mickey’s head. One on his temple.

“Yeah you did. Or you wouldn’t have said them…” Mickey replies when he’s calmer, but it sounds resigned rather than bitter. “…And you were right about some things, I’m sorry too for what it’s worth.” He sounds more composed with every word, more like the poised person Ian knows rather than the one he’s just seen.

“I don’t even know why I got so mad,” Ian finally says, because he has nothing else to say but the truth at this point.

Ultimately, this fight had been coming for a while, maybe since their very first encounter. With the way they’ve been pulling and pushing, towards and from each other, saying the wrong things at the wrong times and an altogether inconsiderate handling of things, it’s a miracle it didn’t happen earlier.

Maybe if it had though, it wouldn’t have been so ugly.

Maybe if Ian hadn’t let this ache build in him like a weight too heavy to carry, it wouldn’t have exploded in their faces.

But what is there to do now? Words were said and things were done and they can’t be taken back but they can be mended, hopefully. If Mickey wants to. Because Ian already knows he does.

“It’s been building up, I should have seen this coming…” Mickey says in agreement with Ian’s thoughts. They’re always so connected, even when they’re fighting, and Ian takes the moment to appreciate the beauty in that. “…And I know some things haven’t been the fairest to you, but my thing with the Southside, it’s got nothing to do with this, it’s much more complicated.” and when his voice wavers at the last word, Ian wants to hold him closer and kiss him snugger.

But Mickey doesn’t let himself be comforted this time, he’s got importing things to let out. “Revisiting my past is not something I do. Ever. It’s traumatic and way too painful. I’m –I’m better off most days never thinking about the things I’ve lived through back then– And I know most people back there don’t have happy childhoods, I can only imagine how bad yours was with a surname like Gallagher…”

Mickey’s smiling tentatively, heart-brokenly so, so Ian tries to ease the discomfort he initially propelled.

“You don’t have to say more, baby. I don’t want to force you to. Never again.”

“Thank you for understanding,” Mickey breathes out, and that’s enough for now. They settle the fight with a dreamy kiss, reconcile the night with a passionate session of procreation.

And it’s only when Ian’s towering above Mickey, panting and sweating as he thrusts himself in and out of his lover, with shame and blame and a whole range of emotions in between, that the realization hits him.

He’s done everything with Mickey. Felt everything there is to feel because of Mickey.

He’s laughed and cried with Mickey.

He’s been jealous and hurt over Mickey. He, in turn, hurt Mickey.

He’s comforted Mickey. He, too, was comforted by Mickey.

He relies on Mickey in times of need and in times of joy and he’s a reliance for Mickey in his times of need and joy. More than his husband ever will.

They make each other happy as much as they make each other feel anything else. As beautiful and revolting as the emotions can become you.

He’s lived everything with Mickey. Lived everything _through_ Mickey.

If that’s not love then Ian doesn’t even want to know what love is: he’s genuinely not interested.

True to Mickey’s words, the revelation sneaks up on him in a peculiar way. It’s like this wave, caressing you back to the shore and leaving you dry on the sand just as fast, the remains of its impact within you.

He’s overwhelmed at how underwhelmed he feels with the realization and the complete acceptance of it.

He loves Mickey.

He’s in love with Mickey Milkovich, former Southside resident curiously reformed into a brilliant, outstanding educator.

Ian Gallagher fell in love with his professor the second he walked into his office and he could never look back.

Ian Gallagher, drowning in debt and middle-class problems, is in love with Professor Mickey Milkovich, drowning in marital bliss.

It’s as freeing as it is condemning.

It also makes Ian reach climax.

+++

Clue elements of Mickey’s past are revealed in short, sporadic briefs over the course of the next few weeks, in between pillowtalks and sex, romantic talks and sex, breakfast talks and sex and post-coital talks and sex.

Kind of the same way Ian’s love omission came to be.

Ian learns to unravel in the aftermaths of these moments and learns how to not be strident with Mickey in those times; how much it pays out be patient sometimes.

“My father was a psychotic, alcoholic, homophobic disgrace of a man,” Mickey confesses in the middle of the night, a few days after the fight. “And that’s describing him on his best days.”

Ian learns, through the horrors of Terry Milkovich just how outstanding of a father figure Frank turned out to be, as alarming as the thought might be.

“He would hit me and my brothers till we were bloody and purple. I know he most likely beat my mom to death,”

The stories and confessions get gloomier each time but it feels like Mickey can breathe a little easier after every one of them. It’s beautiful to observe, the process of someone taking down their walls and unraveling outside of them. It’s a slow process, an almost brick by brick destruction of barriers, but Ian can only appreciate the patience he uncovers with the results it leads to.

Because if Ian thought he loved Mickey before, it’s nothing compared to the love he holds for the Mickey he unscrambles a little more every day. The one with the harsh background, the harsher parents and the courage and brilliance to rebuild a whole new life.

As Ian learns about the real Mickey Milkovich, Mickey learns about the relief in sharing a burden.

“You know, for all the bullshit I read on philosophy, I should have picked up a book or two at some point in time on the basics and merits psychology. It feels surprisingly good to share.”

“I’m glad you’re realizing just how lame philosophy is” Ian counters, little jab to Doctor Fucker on the side. “But Mickey baby, I could have told you that the first day we met,”

“Like I would have ever listened to my sassiest student,”

“Did I ever tell you about my sassiest professor?”

“If by sassiest you mean best…”

“Nah, not him. His classes were the worst.”

It earns him a good slap on his naked white butt. He gives one back, just as hard.

“Hey! I’m the teacher and you’re the student, you don’t get to punish back!”

“I recall you saying the exact opposite like two days ago.”

And Mickey has the audacity to blush and look pure, like he wasn’t the one who asked to be whipped with a belt like the naughty boy that he is.

“Moving on! What were you going to say about this sexy professor?”

“Sassy I said, not sexy.” This time he stops the hand going for a slap before it makes its landing. “But he did tell me something about the past yielding as much power on our future as the present or something along those lines.”

Mickey laughs cheerfully, so Ian continues. “Honestly thought it was bullshit but I’m thinking this guy might have had an inkling”

“It was truth not power, Ian Gallagher. You haven’t been listening to your professors thoroughly enough”

“I’ve been kind of distracted lately, to be honest.” He admits, “But really, truth and power. Power and truth; they’re related concepts if you think about it. Hence to why I call semantics on your correction, Professor Milkovich.”

“Are you going philosophical on my ass?”

“More like debating your ass.”

“Right. Because who is Ian Gallagher without the smartass comebacks? That could be the subject of a great thesis, actually.”

“Hey! I thought you weren’t allowed to call students smartasses.” Ian remembers from their first meeting. He’s apparently going down on memory lane tonight. It’s quite the fun ride.

“I think you’ve surpassed the student status with me quite some time ago, Ian.”

“When I fucked your ass into oblivion?”

“No,” Mickey objects too seriously, and Ian thinks he might have to explain the tactless diplomacy of an ass joke that, once again, went far above Mickey’s head, pun intended. Again.

But then, Mickey corrects. “When you stumbled your way into my ass, life and heart.”

+++

For all the shit Ian gives himself for his poor decisions and choices, loving Mickey might have been the easiest one.

Just as easy as taking a breath of fresh air or lighting up a cigarette. Just as convenient and mundane.

Maybe Mickey makes it too easy, with his dreamy looks and his laugh and his complexing levels of profoundness. With his insightful words and the intricate simplicity with which he tackles on life. 

Maybe Ian loves Mickey because he admires him. Admires the challenges he’s had to face and the courage it took to conquer them. Admires his accomplishments and his failures too. Admires his silliness just that much more when it overcomes his seriousness.

In all the ways, Ian loves Mickey. That, he is sure of.

+++

“How’d you get out of the Southside?” Ian finds the courage to ask eventually.

“DCFS railed our house when I was twelve years old; found all kinds of drugs, weaponry, and four kids with four different variations of abuse on their body.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ian apologizes, something he tries not to overdue when Mickey’s in the state of sharing. It sucks to be pitied but Ian knows all too well the pain of being ripped out of your home and out of your family’s arms, as toxic as the environment might have been.

That’s not pity; it’s shared experiences of trauma.

But Mickey surprises him by the glinting smile he gives. It’s almost sadistic.

“I was the one who called DCFS actually,” he confesses, all too knowingly. “My siblings might hang me for treason if they ever found out, but I knew our days were outnumbered in that house.”

“That’s incredible of you. You’re amazing.” Ian splurges, meaning every word.

Because it is quite the accomplishment, especially for a twelve-year-old. Looking back on Ian’s own lanky ginger kid frame, he knows he never had the strength to pull what Mickey pulled. Doesn’t even know if he has it today, with his twenty-two years of wisdom and his six-feet build.

“I just did what I had to do,” Mickey says with the weight of the world on his shoulders and with the wits of someone who undermines his own accomplishments.

“Mandy and I, we got lucky… They placed us in a home with these great foster parents who were willing to take on preteens. It was rough at first, but I learned how to let down my guards. Finally got an education and moved up my life.”

“That wasn’t luck, Mickey. That was the world righting its wrongs.”

Mickey might not agree, but he’s not disagreeing either.

“My older brothers weren’t as lucky though. They were too old by the time they got in the system.”

“Are you still in contact with them?”

“One of them’s in jail, I think. The other is living with his second baby mama, as I recall.”

It’s a classic enough Southside tale to make them smile, basking in the lightness of the dim conversation.

“I send them money, every month you know? To Mandy too, even though she’s got her shit together. It clears my conscience a little bit.”

Ian turns towards Mickey, placing his pale hands on a paler neck. He wants to look Mickey in the eyes before he says his next words, wants to convey how serious he is. “Mickey, you have nothing to be guilty of, do you hear me? You saved their lives. All of them. Including yours.”

Mickey might not believe him yet, but maybe one day he will.

It’s enough sharing for today and it’s good timing because Ian has to make it to class, trailed by a shift.

Still, when Ian comes back _home_ , ten hours later, with a little more money in his pockets and a lot more coursework up his sleeve, he makes sure to tell Mickey how great he is and how much he admires him.

He doesn’t say love, even though he wants to. Even though, it’s true. They’re not there yet, but they might be getting closer.

+++

“There’s this black-tie event Saturday night and I want you to come with me.” Mickey tells him one day when they’re back at the dorms, with the husband’s two-month departure over all too quickly.

John’s reappearance has been a little different this time. Ian can’t be imagining the prominent burden crafting the beautiful face of his lover. And although Mickey insists it has more to do with the stress of work than anything else, Ian can’t help but find the coincidence of John coming back with Mickey’s stress a little too timed-on to be bogus.

But Ian has learned first-hand that pushing Mickey to confess shit before he’s ready leads to nothing good. So he lets it be, for now.

“Are you asking me on a date, Mickey Milkovich?” Ian teases from his bed, watching Mickey get dressed.

He’s not the one with the afternoon class so he’s staying in bed for the rest of the day, naked, thank you very much.

Mickey looks careful with his next words, “Not per say. John is going to be there too. It’s one of our friend’s housewarming party.”

Ian can’t help the wince. He’s quick to come back to neutrality. “And you want me there too?”

“Absolutely. Plus, there’s an old friend of mine I want you to meet. He’s a hedge-fund portfolio manager and he’s brilliant. Could be a good opportunity for you.”

“Good opportunity to make fun of your pretentious friends?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Good opportunity to makes connections. Learn a thing or two about the field you want to work in. Maybe find yourself an internship.”

“Oh,”

And he likes that Mickey cares about his education. He really does.

And yet it unsettles him every time Mickey shows it; every time Mickey praises him for a great essay Ian wrote that he barely has to correct or when he pushes him to read new books, to learn new stuff related to his career choice. Being cared and looked out for; it’s out of his comfort zone. It’s out of Mickey’s too yet they both force the other to spread it and let it grow.

Maybe loving someone means knowing what’s best for them and in turn, that someone else might know what’s better for you than even you can.

“Let me know if you can make it because I have to RSVP by tomorrow.”

“Do I have to come?”

Mickey must feel his unease because he stops fixing his hair and makes his way to Ian. Ian parts his legs by way of greeting, the familiar press of Mickey’s warmth settling in his lap.

The smaller man places a tender bite on the side of his jaw before he’s nuzzling Ian’s neck, nose tickling day-old stubble.

“You don’t have to, I’d never hold you to anything. But I think this could be nice.”

With a dramatic sigh, Ian relents. “Fineeee, but I’m doing this for you.”

“For _you_ , my love. Everyone’s got to start somewhere in this world. God knows I have.”

“Alright.” Ian agrees because this isn’t worth debating for the sake of debating as much as they like doing that. He plants a quick kiss on top of Mickey’s head and can’t help nuzzling his face in the hair above it, which makes Mickey squeal in outrage when he realizes the now-state of the hair he just spent so much time crafting. “Now get going before your students start wondering where their sexy professor is.”

With a final kiss on Ian’s neck, Mickey gets up, ready to head out. “Ok. Where’s my sneaking-out costume?”

Ian moves to look under his bed. Best storage place in this cubbyhole. “You want the Spiderman mask or the ski goggles, this time?”

+++

As it turns out, the housewarming party is three blocks away from the Gallagher house.

“I read this was the most up-and-coming borough in Chicago,” John says excitedly from the driver’s seat, as they make their way down familiar streets.

Ian suppresses the biggest eye roll. Two years ago, he found a crackhead dead on the corner of this very avenue. Frank was sleeping next to him.

He meets Mickey’s eyes in the side-view mirror. They share a knowing grin.

The house they arrive to, however, is a far cry from the rest of the neighborhood. The stone driveway, concealed by bushes and trees, leads to this castle of a house, bigger than Mickey’s modest one and twice the size of the Gallagher one.

Ian lets out a low-whistle once he’s out of the car. “Jesus, I didn’t know this place was hiding in the middle of the Southside. Might come back with my brothers in the night and do some sightseeing of our own,”

He won’t commit the implied crime, Ian knows that. Mickey knows that too with the giggle he tries to subdue. Home robberies aren’t the Gallagher’s style at all.

John doesn’t know that however and the appalling look of shock it forces out of him makes the joke that much funnier.

“You- you’re kidding, right? These people are our friends!”

And Ian would love to push the gag further, see if he can make doctor fucker piss his pants or something, but Mickey is too fast to account “Of course he’s kidding! Funny guy this Ian. ha ha” he laughs drily and nervously, “John, sweetie, can you be a dear and get our housewarming present from the trunk?”

As John moves to the back of the car, Mickey pushes Ian forward with a grip on his bicep, starting their walk up the house.

“I am quite the funny man, thank you for noticing.”

“Funny and well-behaved, yes?” Mickey presses on with qualm.

It makes Ian tone down on the witty banter. “I promise.”

Doctor fucker is trailing far behind, carrying this ginormous fruit basket which inevitably slows him down and puts more distance between them. Ian almost feels bad. “You want to wait for your husband maybe?”

Mickey glances behind but keeps moving forward. “That piece of shit basket thing was his idea. He’ll manage.”

+++

Ian is bored within the first hour of the night, having already knocked down two glasses of wine.

He’s delaying the third one, his promise to Mickey in mind, and looks around the room for what must be the hundredth time.

All these people, dressed in formal attire, eating cheese on toothpicks, look as phony as they look rich. It’s ironically unappealing.

This party is definitely not Ian’s scene –connections and opportunities be damned– and he still can’t believe it could be Mickey’s.

He does admit the man fits in though, like a hand in a fancy leather glove, with his lavish marine blazer, and his smart commentaries, the way he laughs in the right moment, short and courteous, and the way he moves around the room with poise.

It’s no his Mickey though, this projected illusory shell, it’s too pristine and not bold enough, and it makes him miss the man even though he’s five feet away from him.

Ian, on his end, is probably sticking out like a sore thumb. The suit he had to borrow from _fucking John_ is uncomfortably strained against his biceps and his chest and he feels like he can’t move without ripping the whole thing to shreds. Expensive shreds that is. So he’s standing awkwardly still.

Also, he’s a head taller than everyone else somehow –because nerds have apparently reduced height in common– like his ginger head wasn’t visible enough, and the way people keep looking up to meet his eyes makes him want to spit on their shortened forehead.

He won’t, of course, promise to Mickey in mind.

When John starts his fourth painfully boring anecdote on his latest European travels, Ian stifles a yawn. Mickey notices because he takes a step back from his husband and towards Ian, comfy hand settling on his back.

“You alright, my love?” Mickey says, words miffed by the laughter in the room.

“Yeah. Is your friend still coming?”

“Shouldn’t be long,” then, quieter, Mickey whispers, “I promise he’s much more fun than these old bores.”

+++

Another hour of aimless chatter and waiting for Mickey’s friend and being introduced to Mickey’s acquaintances as his “most promising student” Ian sneaks out of the house to breathe a cigarette on the front porch.

He’s thinking of excuses to feed Mickey for an abrupt getaway –because as much as he loves the man he’d much rather walk to the Gallagher’s house and surprise his siblings– when something in the bushes stirs out of nowhere, picking his intrigue.

A few steps down the porch and he figures it out; a plastered chap peeing in the bushes, Southside’s proudest and most common rodent.

Then the guy stumbles forward and falls flat on his ass.

“Dude? You all good out there?” Ian calls out into the unknown, losing sight of the silhouette when it fell in the dark.

“Ahhh not so great, man. Just landed in my own piss,” he hears a voice with a layered Spanish accent say from somewhere near the bushes.

Ian holds the laughter in and nods in the dark. “Happens to the best of us, my man.”

The guy finally stumbles out of the bushes, dress shirt out of his pants and paper-bagged whiskey bottle in hand.

“I survived the woods!” he calls out, victoriously and Ian can’t tell if this is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to him or if the party was just that dull.

“I’m sure glad you did. Although you might want to refrain from public urination on private properties. These people inside would definitely call the police if they saw something suspicious.”

The guy looks around, like he’s just noticed his surroundings, mansion on the side, police sirens a constant background noise in the Chicago night, and shrugs, making his way to the paved steps next to Ian.

“Don’t I know that. Christ, this neighborhood used to be the shit. I miss the days when problems here looked like heroin addicts instead wee-wee indiscretions in the bushes.”

Ian laughs, offering the guy a cigarette as he takes out a second one for himself. He seems cool enough.

“Tell me about it, I pissed and fucked my way up and down this street. Never had a problem. Nowadays, you get caught you’re automatically slapped with a fucking misdemeanor.”

The guy takes the presented cigarette and offers the bottle in exchange. Southside manners. Ian takes it; swings a good amount of the liquor down his throat, craving the burning inside it comes with.

“It’s worse than that, my friend! You pull your dick out near a school for an urgent piss and they put you on the sex offenders’ list.”

“No fucking way,”

The guy nods, all-knowingly. “Happened to my best bud, didn’t even see he was on school grounds because he was so out of it. Thought he was behind the bar but he’d walked two miles from it, the dumbass.”

“That’s beyond fucked up. Poor guy.”

Ian hears the front door swing open and close in the same intermittence and all of a sudden Mickey’s outside on the porch, plopping down next to Ian, stealing the cigarette from Ian’s mouth to finish the remains.

“There you are, I’ve been looking all over for you. And I see Damon got here! How are you doing, man?”

And holy shit, this is Mickey’s friend? The brilliant self-made genius who made millions out of investing hedge funds? This hilarious, fell-in-my-own-piss, guy with the neck tattoos?

Damn, Ian wasn’t expecting that.

“Little Milky! Long-time no see, brother.” He claps Mickey on his back and it’s so familiar, so Southside, Ian is thrown. “This the fella you’ve been tell me about?” Damon points towards Ian.

A hand touches the back of his head, stroking the little hairs near his neck. “The one and only, Ian Gallagher.”

The guy looks pleased enough (the feeling’s mutual) and offers a hand to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Ian Gallagher.”

“Likewise, man.”

A friend of Mickey he not only likes, but has things in common with? Someone who could maybe help him get a good job? This was a good night not to miss. Mickey was right.

Again.

“So what’s the party status inside?”

Mickey replies honestly. “Boring. We’re not missing anything, staying outside.” He tells his friend.

“Alright then you guys want to go somewhere else? I’m down for some pizza.”

+++

It turns out, Doctor Wallace is also invited, seeing as he drives them all to the nearest pizza joint opened at this hour.

Ian can’t be bothered. This Damon guy is way too funny and he brings something out of Mickey Ian taught he could only find in the safety of a bed. He’s not jealous for once; loves seeing his carefree Mickey out in the open for the world to witness. And Mickey looks so comfortable in the hood –unlike his husband– something Ian never could have imagined until a few weeks ago.

It’s like the older man isn’t even here, the way the three of them banter back and forth liked high school friends. Turns out Damon did go to the same high school as Ian, admittedly years earlier.

“You almost gave a nine-year-old Mickey knuckle tattoos?” Ian asks, disbelieving.

He can picture it, his little professor with knuckle tats displaying whatever words. Something cute or something dumb most likely.

Damon nods, looking evil.

Mickey looks sheepish.

John looks uncomfortable.

Damon goes on, drunk and guileless. “Yeah, that would have looked fucking awesome! But it wasn’t even for fun, it was for some serious shit. I wanted to toughen little Milky up before his first rodeo in juvie because kid prison is no fucking joke and…”

Ian notes Mickey blanching in panic while Damon goes on, notes his husband going rigid, and notes the sudden tension in the air.

He knows what’s going to happen before it even unfolds.

“Juvie?” the husband repeats, incredulously, shutting everyone up. “You went to _juvenile detention_?!”

Oh right. John doesn’t know about that. Ian only knows because of that time when he mentioned Carl’s very own experience in the clink. He was sworn to secrecy afterwards. Like he’d ever blabbed. He’s no Damon.

Mickey tries to explain. “It’s not what it–”

“What it sounds like?” John finishes Mickey’s sentence, tone ascending. “Because it sounds like I unknowingly married a criminal!”

You could hear a pin drop, right now.

Damon’s realized his slip-up and his eyes are cast downwards onto the floor. Mickey looks as apologetic as he looks upset. And Ian,

If Ian could disappear into thin air right now he would. Watching the man he loves fight with his husband is not something he ever though he’d have to sit through.

“Were you ever going to tell me or was this secret to die with the marriage?”

“John, don’t. This isn’t the time nor the place.”

But John does.

“It’s like I don’t even know who you are anymore with the way you’ve been acting lately and now, _this_?”

Tensions in the marital bliss? Ian wasn’t aware. Not the time to dwell on it though.

“John, please. Not in public. We can talk about it later, okay?” Mickey pleads and if Ian could take Mickey into thin air with him he would. Otherwise he wouldn’t go.

“You bet your ass later.” John declares, looking furious and uncompromising. He leaves the table, then the diner.

+++

The ride back is unbelievably tense, after an also very tense goodbye to Damon. Like warzone tense. Hell looks like a dream destination right about now.

Ian isn’t even really concerned in the matter and he’s shitting bricks himself. Probably for and with Mickey, since they’re so connected.

When Ian thinks he’s about to lose his mind in the maddening silence, he looks at Mickey; his beautiful lover. His lover who’s about to go through battle and might come out scattered. Even the back of Mickey’s head looks tense.

“What did you even go in for?” John lets out from the front, like he’s been debating on holding it in or not for the past minutes, shoulders tense, grip tight on the steering wheel.

As it comes to be, John makes the wrong choice.

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember, or you don’t want to tell me?”

Oh fuck. If they’re about to fight in the car, Ian’s throwing himself out the window. This is worse than the silence.

“I don’t remember, John. It was like twenty fucking years ago. Probably a gun in my schoolbag or a knife. I only went three months in.”

“So a criminal, a liar _and_ a violent thug. What an upstanding citizen my husband makes.”

That doesn’t sit right with Ian. Not from this condescending piece of shit who clearly has no idea what’s it like to be a child in the Southside. Not aimed at his Mickey, his perfect Mickey, who is hands down the greatest person he knows and does not deserve to be insulted like this.

He can’t help himself from talking. He really can’t. That’s where Ian makes his wrong choice.

Choice being loosely used, seeing as he can’t let this go without betraying his very own character.

“You can stay angry, man, but you better watch your fucking words.”

“Ian, stay out of this!” Mickey cuts through instantly, but Ian is focused on the driver, driver whose current rage turns on him.

Good. As long as it’s not Mickey.

“And who are you exactly to tell me how to speak to _my_ husband? The charity case he fucks when I’m not there?”

Now Ian’s blood is boiling.

“John, stop. This has nothing to do with him. Ian, let it go, please.”

And John’s laughing now but its ugly. “I bet _you_ knew about this,” he spits accusingly at Ian, “Bet you loved thinking Mickey was as fucked-up as you. Thought you finally had a chance against me, didn’t you?”

There’s so many incorrect things to unveil in this one statement, so many things that enrage Ian, but the fucker isn’t even done talking.

“But you’re worth _nothing_ to him. You’re no one.”

“I’m the man who loves him and treats him better than you ever could, you undeserving, _worthless_ sack of shits.”

Thank God they’re on a deserted street and not on the highway, because the car drastically halts, tires screeching beneath it and all two passengers flying frontward.

Doctor Wallace turns in his seat, murderous look on his face, with the redness and the veins throbbing and the spit flying. Ian must look the same, he certainly feels as lethal.

Still, what an ugly motherfucker.

“Get out, before I fucking kill you.”

The irony. A fight started because of criminal acts and ended with one too. Ian almost dares him.

“Gladly.” He says instead, spitting the word out with venom and a last glance at Mickey who looks so distraught and so upset.

“We can’t leave him here in the middle of nowhere!” Mickey tells his husband frantically from the front seat but Ian’s unbuckling his seatbelt and making his exit out of the vehicle.

“Ian!” Mickey calls desperately but it goes unanswered.

“Ian! Wait–”

But Ian shuts the door behind him and the car thunders away in the following second, leaving him stranded.

+++

Ian knows he fucked up. Again.

He knows the feeling all too well by now.

If his previous poor decisions hadn’t made the top of his list yet, this one has to be it.

This has to be Ian’s worst mistake.

At least he can live the remaining years of his life knowing he can’t sink any lower. He’s touched the ocean floor in the waters of remorse and sank his flag deep into the grounds. It doesn’t get any worse.

After walking to the nearest L station and enduring an hour-long ride on the subway back to the dorms, Ian almost has to physically restrain himself in order to not call Mickey.

He hides his phone under the mattress instead, but retrieves it after a few minutes for fear of missing a notification from the man he loves.

The man he loves who’s most likely in the middle of a big fucking fight with his husband. One Ian only made worse.

He manages to wait two more hours by busying himself with pointless things like making his bed, picking up his dirty socks, shedding his borrowed clothes off and fighting the urge to light them on fire.

Then he calls Mickey, the call going to voicemail after lengthy rings.

He calls again before bed but it’s still unanswered.

The next morning when he wakes up with absolutely no news, he feels the dread coming.

He sends Mickey seven texts in a row, apologizing, asking if he’s okay, profusely apologizing, begging for any sign of life and apologizing some more.

They all go unanswered.

+++

It sucks because he’s missing so many things he’s left at Mickey’s house, not knowing he wouldn’t be welcomed back. He’s missing his phone charger, his deodorant and like two school manuals.

Subsequently, there’s so much of Mickey’s stuff in his room he can’t seem to touch or even look at, for fear of them combusting out of existence. He’s walking on eggshells in his too small residence.

Too small for a tall ginger with a heavy heart yet too big with Mickey’s absence.

It mostly sucks because he misses Mickey and he doesn’t know how he’s doing.

It has only been three days.

+++

In the next days, he hears from Mickey through the school email system with the professor cancelling today’s class for personal reasons. His sincerest apologies.

Ian doesn’t go as far as to reply to the programmed message email with his own personal bullshit even though he starts a draft on his phone, hysterically typing away.

It’s deleted.

Small victories.

+++

It takes a week. An entire fucking week. Seven days of pure Hell. For something to happen.

Not long in the great scheme of things, but very long in the mind of a young man’s broken-hearted dread.

It’s Saturday night, one week after the party-turned-nightmare fiasco, and as Ian tosses and turns in his bed, he thinks he might be met with another one of those sleepless nights. He hasn’t slept in days and it’s cruel and haunting how he’s kept up at night when the days taunt him with exhaustion.

He deserves it.

Then there’s pounding on his door and it sounds urging within the wraths of the knocks.

It’s two in the fucking morning. Ian thinks if he’s disrupted one more time by a drunk college student who’s mistaken his room for someone else’s, he’ll really lose it. If he hasn’t lost it already.

But the knocks are persistent enough for him to move his lazy ass out of bed and open the door on this fucking intruder.

Except it’s not an intruder; it’s Mickey.

Mickey, standing in the middle of his door, undisguised within the dorm halls, bags under blue condemning eyes, trashed hair and beautiful, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And Ian’s unprepared, forgets everything he thought to say to the love of his life in the midst of the moment.

But Mickey’s crashing his lips onto Ian’s before he can muster a reaction, throwing his body into his always awaiting arms. He envelops him, holds him close to his heart, while their kisses go from desperate to passionate to frantic.

Ian manages to free an arm out of Mickey’s touch for the second it takes to shut the door behind them. Then it’s back to touching, holding, squeezing.

Mickey is fierce in his embrace, the distraught evident in his actions.

The realization makes Ian stop for a second. “Mick, Mickey. I’m so–”

But Mickey shushes him, quick to busy Ian’s lips with his own. “No, talking for now. Just loving, okay?”

Okay, Ian can get on board with that.

He pushes Mickey further inside the room, managing to strip him from his shirt to touch warm skin on their way to the bed.

Mickey lays on his back with a soft landing over the duvet and Ian is softer in the way he towers him with the weight of his own body, both men still attached at the mouth. 

Then Ian starts a trail of kisses down his lover’s body, leaving one on the mouth, chin, collarbone, torso, stomach, hip and then, finally, closer to his exposed pelvis _._

Mickey is a puddle of moans and whimpers under him, each sound more frantic and delicious than the previous, his hands never leaving Ian’s neck and shoulders as he moves.

They’re quick to remove the remaining clothes separating them after that, quicker to finally get down to business.

When Ian pushes in, Mickey cries out in the first sights of relief, neck crowning in delight.

When Ian thrusts further down, he moans in Mickey’s neck, biting down on juicy flesh.

When Mickey meets his thrusts with the roll of his hips, Ian almost lets the words slip out. The three words he’s never said aloud but constantly feels, more with each day. He bites his own tongue to keep them in.

They’re so close to each other, closer than usual. Ian’s weight is completely on Mickey yet Mickey seems to want even more, with the way he presses Ian down. They’re touching everywhere they can; face pressed to face and chest pressed to chest, a mess of legs wrapped together. There’s no more personal space, no more Ian and Mickey alone but _Ian &Mickey_. And it might just be for a moment, but Ian will hold it close to his heart forever.

They make love like that, tender and loving in ways they’ve never been, with no words spoken; only talking through their bodies. It’s tragically beautiful or beautifully tragic.

They come together, in the densest sense of the word, and they stay like this, laying on top of one another, huffs breathed into the other’s mouth.

Then comes the hard part.

+++

It’s not as hard as he imagined. Maybe because Mickey starts it with this,

“Did you mean it?”

They’re still in bed, still laying down, but they’re not as close anymore. It feels like they’re worlds apart now, even with their naked shoulders touching. Mickey isn’t even looking at him when he speaks, he’s staring at the ceiling like it did something to personally offend him.

Ian foolishly hopes he's not a metaphor for this ceiling.

“What?” He presses, with the need to clarify.

Because if Mickey’s asking if he meant it when he called his husband a piece of shit, he definitely fucking did. If Mickey’s asking about the other part though…

“When you said you loved me, in the car. Did you mean it?”

For once in his life, Ian doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure what Mickey wants here, if he’s looking for a retraction or a meaning; an apology or a reason. And he’s not sure if he wants to see the reaction either will warrant, as different as they may be. Anger, relief, pain, they all sound bad.

“Because if this was just a heat in the moment thing, or if you only said it to anger _him_ … I need to know.”

“How could you even think that?”

“I’m not thinking anything, Ian. That’s the point. I just want the truth. For once. No games, no play. No lies.”

Mickey wants the truth? The whole truth and nothing but the truth? He’s going to get it.

“Of course I meant it you dumbass! How could I not? I spend all my time by your side and even when I’m not, you’re all I think about. Every minute of every day and I’m so used to it because it’s been like this since the moment I first saw you and I–"

“Say it.” Mickey stops the rant, looking at Ian for the first time since the beginning of this conversation.

Blue eyes meet green ones. "What?"

"Say it. Please."

“I love you,” Ian whispers like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It might not be easy but it’s true and it’s freeing to admit. “I love you more than you can imagine.”

Tears fill up Mickey’s eyes and start falling freely and- and this is the exact reaction Ian wanted to avoid.

It’s the first time in his life Ian’s said those words to someone with romantic intent and it feels raw and vulnerable. Maybe a younger Ian imagined the moment to be less painful and more tender. Things never go as planned for Ian, so really, he’s not that thrown.

Ian’s just standing still, not knowing what to do. He doesn’t know how to comfort Mickey when he’s the one putting his heart on the line here, so he just watches Mickey crying. He’s surprised he’s not crying too, honestly, because the implied rejection should hurt, but he’s too dull to feel its wrath. He’s accepted his faith a long time ago. The faith of loving someone who can’t love you back. The pain of unrequited love.

Eventually, Mickey calms down and, intricate lover that he is, moves on to the next part of this difficult discussion without acknowledging the first. It leaves Ian feeling relieved and perplexed at the same time.

“We fought this whole week, John and I. Every time I think it’s over it just starts back and it’s always worse.”

“About the juvie thing?”

“Only at first. Now it’s like there’s twenty fights going on at once.”

“How many are about me?” Ian asks eventually, not even trying to sound casual.

Mickey hesitates before he comes forward with the truth. “Half of them… but you’re indirectly implied in the other half.”

“How?”

“He says I’ve changed since we met… says I’m no longer the person he fell in love with.” Mickey confesses and the way his voice wavers makes Ian ache as much as Mickey looks to be.

“…and he said if I see you again, he’s divorcing me.”

Ian wants to tell him how much of an ass his husband is being for giving ultimatums and saying shit like that. How he deserves so much more than this son of a bitch who can’t even be bothered to be home half the time, can’t be bothered to actually learn who his husband really is. Because Mickey hasn’t fucking changed. 

If anything, he’s just more comfortable with being Mickey.

But Ian’s not interfering. Not after last time. Not when Mickey’s here, ignoring direct orders from his stupid husband.

It’s called learning from your mistakes.

So he settles for saying, “Well you’re the person I’m in love with. Every version of you; the college professor, the polyamorous husband, the Southside thug… I love all of them.”

And Mickey looks like he’s about to cry again and Ian doesn’t understand why he keeps using the L-word when all it seems to be doing his bring them pain. But then,

“I love you too, Ian.” Mickey whispers, like this conversation is too fragile, too beautiful to be vulgarized with volume.

“You do?” Ian whispers back, in incredulity, like if he’s too loud, the words might disappear.

“I do. I do love you… Even when I didn’t want to, even when I tried to fight it, I couldn't.”

“I love you too.” Ian replies right back, almost on auto-pilot, just because it feels like the right thing to say.

And– and because Ian can’t believe it. He’s baffled. He’s in a state of shock. He must be dreaming Mickey right now, alone in his dorm for the seventh night in a row. Because this is the dream, right? Being loved back by the person you love. It’s all he’s ever wanted before even knowing it.

Of course, as most dreams tend to do when they turn true, they carry the burden, the less dreamy parts, of the reality they’re surrounded in.

Which are found in Mickey’s next words. “I’m in love with my college student who's ten years younger than me and I’m married to someone else, can you fucking believe it?” and Mickey’s almost laughing in this bitter way, like the irony of the situation is as cruel as it is funny.

But Ian’s not laughing, he’s blindly believing. “We’ll figure it out, if that’s what you want.”

And he really, truly believes it. He believes they can surmount any obstacles, be it a husband, university rules, socially unacceptable age gaps, family, or whatever the fuck else is thrown their way. They’re great together and they’re only stronger when united, with love on their side. Ian's ready to fight and ready to go the distance for this love, this connection between them too special to overcome.

Ian might be young and naïve but he believes in true love and happy endings and most importantly, he believes in Mickey. Mickey, who promised himself to somebody else but loves him nonetheless. Mickey who chooses him, even when he shouldn’t.

Almost on second thought, Ian remembers the husband’s demand and wonders how serious the threat behind it was. He wonders if he should care; Mickey doesn’t seem to, seeing as he's here and all.

He thinks to ask. “Does he know you’re here right now?”

And now, Mickey’s smiling, evil-like, and Ian wonders if it’s normal to love a person to this extent. He wonders briefly, to which extent exactly Mickey loves him, and if it’s as remotely big as Ian’s.

Mickey reveals part of the answer before he can even ask, as connected as they always are.

“Told him to get the fucking divorce papers ready.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> wasn’t the biggest fan of the Lip x Helene storyline but I found some parts interesting enough to be inspired, especially Helene’s positive influence on Lip’s education and seeing him become so vulnerable in the presence of a woman. It's what I tried (and hopefully succeeded) to express the most in the work above. Of course, I scrapped out all the shitty parts of the storylines to turn it into a proper Gallavich story with a happy ending.
> 
> I really hope you guys liked this because I had a lot of fun writing it!
> 
> I’m also very excited for the next part of the series. I’ll be tackling a different shameless relationship through the eyes of Gallavich. I’m thinking either Kev x Vee or Lip x Karen for the second part but there's a lot more to come.
> 
> Please let me know if you find one prompt more intriguing than the other. And if you have any suggestions, comments or ideas for the upcoming series, I’m all for hearing it!
> 
>   
> (P.S. before you slaughter me for the complete assassination of Mickey’s character, I just want to say that the exercise for me here, was to adapt Gallavich into an already defined relationship with already defined characters. Integrating their individual personalities was as important to the exercise as displaying the couple dynamic of the original characters and their own traits. Still, some were a little harder to adapt, maybe making this too farfetched for some of you.
> 
> Still, I think Mickey Milkovich has the potential to be someone extraordinary and maybe if he had just this one good role model in his childhood, his outcome could have been very different. I love any and every version of Mickey and they’re all fun to write regardless. Also, if the Shameless writers can make a complete 360 on Mickey’s personality and turn him dumb (from the looks of season 11) allow me to 720 it right back and make him a successful college professor.)
> 
> With all of this being said, I praise you if you’ve made it this far in my rant.
> 
> Find me on tumblr: toastyhusbandstand
> 
> Thank you all!


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